


Scent of the Sea

by ChastitysNook



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:56:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 54,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27654443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChastitysNook/pseuds/ChastitysNook
Summary: (Second in a series of novels based upon the offerings in Chastity's Nook [as seen on Critical Role])
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

“Fire!”

The roar of the cannon, a billowing cloud of smoke and ash, the lurch of the ship and an instant later, the whine of a mass of chains and iron balls pierced the cacophony and struck the mizzenmast of the Arethuse, splintering it at the base. The resulting billowing tumble of oak, canvas, and rope gave a fine distraction as The Onyx pulled alongside the merchant vessel.

“Boarding party… Advance!” The gruff voice rose over the din and like ants defending an anthill the crew of the Onyx flooded across the deck. Within a half-hour, the crew of the Arethuse lay on their bellies upon the deck, awaiting news of their final fate as their armed conquerors strolled in their midst.

At the helm of The Onyx, Captain Davian Harcourt stood with eyes as cold and dark as the northern seas, surveying the damage. The smoke, once roiling and black now drifted upward like thin specters into the cloudless sky. The deafening sounds of battle had vanished to an almost painful silence broken only by the quiet lapping of the Lucidian against the hull and the occasional voice barking orders from across the way.

Tall for a human, he was honed by years at sea, his long dark brown hair pulled back in a leather thong, turning slowly more pale as one's eyes moved to the tips which were nearly blonde, token of their time under the bleaching sun. His skin of rugged tan, more by heritage than the leathery toasting of many sailors, was exposed from his throat to the middle of his chest. His jawline tense, the skin there shadowed by two days growth of beard. 

His booted footsteps thudded as he made his way across to the now hobbled merchant vessel, his trusted crew parting as he moved to where he could be seen and heard by the sailors that now lay across the deck on their stomachs, awaiting news of their fate.

“Men and women of the Arethuse…” he began, his voice loud enough to carry easily as even the wind seemed to pause to listen. “My name is Captain Harcourt of The Onyx. I have come for one purpose.” He turned and took the manifest from his quartermaster, holding it up.

“What I seek, however, is not on this list of goods. On this ship somewhere is Miss Rosamonde Bouchard. I am willing to trade one life…” he looked from face to face. “For every other life on board. Produce her, and I will depart taking no further action against this ship or her crew.” His voice shifted to ice. “If you do not, I will have my men take this ship to Darktow to be emptied and repurposed while you, her _former_ crew, sink to the depths of the Lucidian.”

He handed back the manifest and crossed his arms over his chest. “What shall it be?”


	2. Chapter 2

_\- The Menagerie Coast, 18 months ago -_

  


From the shadows of the alley he watched. The hood pulled down low, hair falling forward in filthy tangles to further obscure his features Davian feigned a drunkenness he could not afford, seeming to be just another wretched bit of flotsam washed up into the alleys of Port Damali. 

He had been happy once. He’d not been rich in anything but contentment. Simple life. Loving family, trusted friends, a humble home and a future. That had ended five years ago. In a single night, everything he loved, everything that formed his world, was destroyed. 

Left for dead, he’d survived only by the whim of fate and even though he had not died, he did not live either. His misery was a riptide that threatened to pull him under until his mind clicked upon his new reason for living. Vengeance. Ship to ship, port to port, he worked with one singular goal. To find a way to make Baron Rhys Viscardi pay. 

It had been three years before the blade with which he would cut down his enemy fell into his hands. Loitering outside of a dockside dive in the Tumbledowns district when the door flew open and a pair of shadows spilled out in the long rectangle of light from the interior, becoming shadows in the dark as the door slammed behind them. 

“... and we were so HAPPY!…” A young man in a zhelezo uniform stumbled down the road, his friend guiding him along. “... and then here comes that bastard Viscardi…” he sneered. “And suddenly it’s like ‘Tobin who?’” 

Davian pulled back against the wall as they passed, any thought of liquor fled with the utterance of his hated enemy’s name.  
“You have to forget her, Tobin.” the friend said consolingly. 

The young soldier reared back and stumbled to gain independence in his walking, though it was neither graceful nor well-advised as he tripped over his own feet and nearly went face-first into the road before his friend caught his arm and jerked him back to stumble into a lampost, which he grabbed and clung to as he moaned in misery. 

“I can’t! I love her so much!” The one called Tobin was peeled off the pole by his friend who looked both sympathetic and wise enough to know that the passions of youth were never as bad as they made its sound. 

“Rosamond Bouchard is a pampered, spoiled, selfish girl. She is only after one thing. Money. You don’t have any and that’s not changing any time soon. Especially…” he hauled him up and gave him a pair of not-too-gentle slaps to the face. “If you are thrown out of the zhelezos before your first month is even over. Now, come on. Back to barracks and you can sleep it off.” 

Davian fell back, slowing his pace as they moved off into the dark. He had a name. A tie to Viscardi. It was something at least. As he turned to walk back as he’d come, his mind turned on the name. Bouchard… he had heard it before. Seen it somewhere. For days it gnawed at him as he toiled at the docks until the answer, quite literally, was right in front of his face. 

**_Bouchard Winery - Feolinn_ **

Could there be a connection? He insinuated himself into corners, listened at conversations, asked casual questions and blatantly demanded answers from various folk over the week. By the time The Opala was done reloading and pulling out of Port Damali, he knew all he needed to know.  
Rosamonde Bouchard was indeed the only child of Samual Bouchard. He and his brother Reingold were heirs to one of the most wealthy wine-making families in Exandria. Samual, in addition to the winery, had become a man of means in his own right when he established Twin Moon Trading Company, the premiere import/export business on the Menagerie Coast. 

As for the woman herself, she was rumored to be charming and beautiful. The toast of the Port Damali social scene. It was at one such event that had brought her to cross paths with Rhys Viscardi. He’d taken a shine to her and though no one dared say anything too salacious against the girl, it was a well-known fact that she and her father were frequent visitors to Viscardi’s private island retreat just north-east of the Twinward Isles. Those who traded in rumor even hinted that sometimes, she visited without her father. 

Though beautiful and immense, this house was nothing compared to the palatial sprawl of Viscardi’s plantation on the island of Te’epala, south of the continent of Tal’Dorei. A man might grow rich in the trade of suude or flesh, but there was no end to the craving for that addiction that Viscardi fed. 

_Sugar._

Whether it was ground into sandy crystals for pies and cakes, turned to dust for pastries or cubes for teas and coffee it poured out of his plantation. That same sugar boiled down into sweet, rich molasses for cooking or made into fine dark rum there was no end to the flow of gold that poured into Viscardi’s coffers.  
Gold that swiftly transformed into power. The power to destroy lives and suffer no repercussions. To bend the law to his will. To surround himself with men whose loyalty was as easy to buy as a loaf of bread. Any attempt to attack him outright would be short-lived and futile.

He was weakest when abroad, so Davian had waited patiently. His trade would doubtless bring him to Port Damali eventually, and when it did, he would find a way to repay Viscardi’s treachery in kind. Make him suffer as he himself had suffered and this Rosamonde would, sadly for her, be the thing with which he brought Viscardi to understand what pain truly was. 

He had nearly expended his pitiful savings, but the week of choosing stalking his prey over doing proper work was just about to bear fruit. He was one of the crowd gathered to watch as Viscardi’s private pleasure yacht arrived at the Larboard Light District on the third of Misuthar, joining other equally indulgent craft in the harbor as the elites made their way into Port Damali, a veritable parade of the obscene shows of wealth. Fine fashion from Tal’Dorei and beyond, jewels and gold dripping from fingers and ears and throats. A tide of indulgence that swept in at dusk and back out again in the wee hours of morning. 

He saw his prey with the girl as expected. She’d accompanied Viscardi to his private island the first night along with an entourage of guards and hangers-on and joined him each night as they attended the myriad parties leading up to the Night of Challenging. He sought to get a view of her, but she was always blocked from his sight by a parasol or masquerade mask or draped shawl to protect her anonymity. It was one thing that everyone knew who it was, it was quite another for it to be made brazenly obvious.

From a small rowboat bobbing in the dark waters to the side of Viscardi’s private retreat, Davian watched and learned what he could of his enemy’s lair. The small island of Sifa sat midway between Port Damali and the Twinward Isles. Less than a mile across, it was sheer cliffs on all sides, only the smallest section of beach around the base. Here a dock and a guardhouse had been constructed. Beyond it, a long winding stair lead upward several hundred feet to a verdant plateau on which the fine house awaited whatever debauchery its master filled it with. 

He’d kept his ear open and had followed some of the men who now he watched prowling that small dock. Viscardi would not be so gauche as to forgo making an appearance with the Marquis and the other elites at the Godsbrawl to revel in their riches and gamble them away on their chosen champions. With their master away, the guards were plotting to find their own way to Port Damali to enjoy the festivities. With the house empty, he would be free to put forth his plan.

He occupied a shadowed alley where he could keep an eye on Viscardi’s arrival that night. He moved without any bauble upon his arm. Had he left his lady love behind? Was the duplicitous daughter of House Bouchard too delicate for the brutality of the Godsbrawl? In an instant the plan changed. Her lover had abandoned her to cruel fate so he might indulge in his vices unfettered. When he returned, Viscardi would, at last, know the pain that Davian had suffered.  
The guilt would devour him. The self-directed hatred. The horror of knowing that if he’d only have remained by her side, she’d still be alive. If he’d been better, stronger, smarter, it never would have happened. Viscardi, however, would not be forced to live with it for years as Davian had. A single day of pain at best before Davian would end his life and send that devil back to the Hells that spawned him. 

Under the cover of darkness, the little boat bobbed and crept low in the water at the far side of the island. He’d watched the guards slip away themselves, leaving only a handful to worry over. None of them would imagine someone would come this way. It was a tricky, slippery trial scaling the cliffs. Barely a finger hold in places and he could not risk the noise of beating pitons into the stone. Thankfully the wind was light and the moon bright enough to see the next spot to grip. Even so, his hands and bare feet were littered with dozens of cuts when, at last, he reached the top.

Looking up at the fine mansion, he felt a momentary twinge of uncertainty. He cast his mind to his pain, the sorrow rising up like a flooding river, threatening to overtake him, to wash him away to that place where he would cry until there were no tears left, only that grinding, burning ache of loss. For two years he had woken with the fading memory of nightmares and the echoing vow he had made then. A vow that even now cut through the reticence. “Make Viscardi taste the bitter dregs of misery. Let him suffer as I have suffered. I will show him what it is to lose the one you love.” There was no other way.

Tying the length of coiled rope to a thick tree near the edge, he carefully hid the coil beneath leaves to help obscure the black-dyed and knotted hemp. The trip down would be far easier. He slid through the dark trees, ever watchful for the prowling of guards. Lying still, breath held, behind a row of bushes as a pair drifted by, passing a flask between them. 

At a rear door, he plucked the tools from his pocket and after several seconds of fiddling, the lock clicked and the door was slowly nudged to open. Stealth above all, he penetrated the house with no more sound than a deft cat might make, closing the door behind him, now within the very heart of Viscardi’s seat of power in this part of the world. 

Though dark now, it twisted his guts to see the vulgar shows of wealth. Tables adorned with silver trays and crystal vases of flowers, furnishings of the finest imported woods and fabrics. He could have fed a family of five for a year on just the golden trinkets that sat along the mantle of one fireplace. Theft, however, was not his reason for coming tonight.

The hour was quite late, and he could only assume the household was abed. Perhaps that was a blessing. He drew his dagger, thinking perhaps the girl would never know at all. She would simply slip from some pleasant dream to eternity without ever waking. It was cold comfort, and it did not fully erase the twinge of distaste over what he had to do, but it was something. 

The curving stair lead to a second floor. A long hall of doors all alike. Which was the right one? A sound from the end of the hall, not loud, but it called his eye enough to notice the faint light that was flickering from beneath it. That voice in his head which had been whispering to him this was wrong, now screamed it against the blood rushing in his ears as he moved on silent bare feet along the rich carpet and toward that door. 

He paused, fingers on the handle, ear turned toward the door, listening keenly. Shuffling, a soft dull thud and a soft feminine curse. Slowly, gently, he pressed the handle down until the latch gave and the door crept open a fraction. Peering through the crack, he laid his eyes on the woman fully for the first time.  
Her back was to him, the long blonde hair fell loosely down her back, her nightdress thin enough that in the lamplight he could see the line of her legs as she moved toward the bookshelf. For all his hatred of Viscardi, he had good taste in women. He was intent on watching her, leaning in a bit as she moved out of view and the door slid open a bit more, giving a faint creak. He had no time to think further. His blade lifted and he stepped in. He glared at her as she spun around, eyes wide in surprise. 

Hair, like the high golden grasses of the plains tumbled freely around her heart-shaped face. Her eyes a heated amber gold that was startlingly alluring. A beauty in face and figure. No. He would not see her. He would force himself to see only what he had seen that day so long ago. Poor Navia, little Petri, the baby… He only had to act. To leave this woman as a message to Viscardi. That he too could lose everything he loved in a single stroke. Seconds ticked by, but he could not move. 

Her hand lifted, a placating gesture, slow and submissive, shaking badly. She did not seem like the social-climbing harlot she had been portrayed as. She seemed terrified and confused and terribly alone. The slow shake of her head as she held his eye softened his heart. He could not do this! She took a step back but stumbled and he foolishly let his blade drop just a bit, his free hand instinctively reaching toward her for stability. 

In that instant, she threw up her arm, striking the flat of his blade away to the right as she darted to the left. As she wheeled on him, he noted far too late that her hand was not empty. In a flash of silver, the inkwell struck him above his left eye.

Pain blinded him for a moment, his hand rising to find his face sticky with what he thought was ink until he felt the familiar heat and grit and knew it to be blood. “You viperous bitch!” he dodged the next three projectiles far more deftly even with one eye shut against the stream of warm crimson. He snatched at her but she eluded his grip and ran for the door. 

He was swift on her heels and being far taller had the advantage in both reach and running speed. He could simply slash out and cut her down as she ran, but he was not like Viscardi. He did not murder as his victims fled. He dove at her, catching her around the waist and pulling her back against his chest, her feet kicking wildly as she clawed uselessly at the sleeve of his coat. “Be still!” he turned his dagger and when she felt it press to her side, her fighting ceased. 

Her head lay against his shoulder, his arm sliding up as he let her feet bear her weight again, though he kept a firm grip around her ribcage just below her breasts as they rose and fell in swift cadence with each ragged breath. Her hair against his cheek was soft and slightly fragrant, not the cloying perfume that her sort usually indulged in. There was no hardness to her. Her plush backside was pressed to his thigh and suddenly he was far too aware of her charms.  
He could not allow her the time to turn them upon him further. She’d feigned the innocent and he’d faltered once. He couldn’t do it again, no matter how her body seemed to mold to him and tempt a thousand thoughts of sensuality. 

“Rosamonde Bouchard…” he said quietly in her ear. “I have a message for your lover.” He tightened his grip on the blade to drive it upward, to do what he’d come to do. To have his vengeance at last. Seconds ticked by and he could not make himself press that few inches. 

“Damn you.” he hissed under his breath, though he wasn’t sure if he were speaking to himself or to her. His eye was swelling shut, the blood ran freely as head wounds did, and whether it was the pain, the blood, or something else, he let his grip ease just enough that she wrenched loose and dove out the door. 

“GUARDS! GUARDS!” She shouted, running for the stairs. He snarled from the doorway and he knew pursuit would do him no good. She was gone. Slamming the door shut, he barred it best he could and began to look for another way out. He pulled uselessly at the windows of the room, noticing only now it was some manner of office. A distant bell was ringing, answered, multiplied. Grabbing up a chair he swung and broke the window out, risking the drop rather than be trapped in the room. 

The heavy drapery he grabbed as he jumped caught him up, snatching him to a halt for just a moment before tearing loose of the rod. It slowed his fall though his ankle gave a nasty crunch as he landed. Lurching wildly for the treeline, he could hear the shouts behind him, the guards that remained were now gathering, lights were being lit. He reached his rope and threw it over the ledge, grabbing hold and dropping down, moving swiftly as he could down the cliff face.

He let go at the end and tumbled down into the sand, rolling to a limping sprint, lurching toward his boat in the dark. He was nearly there when a bright light flashed before him, silhouetting a figure that brought him up short. 

“Jus’ where do ya think yar goin’?”

A heavy pain at the back of his head and his last conscious thought was the flash of those amber eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

His memories were scattered. Brief but dull flashes of being wet and cold. Of hands pulling at him. Voices arguing… but quietly, as if fearful of being overheard. Of bobbing, of falling, of pain. 

The clarity that came with wakefulness was no mercy. Half blinded, devoured by fever, he drifted between consciousness and dreams until they blended. He felt something cold and wet touch his forehead, shocking him to wakefulness.

“Shhh.” A voice whispered, sounding like the soft caress of waves on a sandy shore. “Let me help.” 

He cracked open the one eye he could to focus on a shadow amidst darkness, making out little of features except that the face was round and pleasant, the hair wild and white as was the long beard. He felt the heat seep out of his skin, chilling him a bit as the pain seemed to be drained away with the burning fever. 

“Took me a while to get out of the chains so you’ll likely have a scar…” The man’s voice was barely audible,but it filled him with a sense of comfort and ease. “Sleep now. Rest is the best medicine.” 

“Who…” Davian’s voice crackled roughly, broken by thirst and days of being unused. 

“Wolna. Now sleep.” 

Davian felt it like that warm beach wave, peaceful and soft, dragging him under a sea of restful slumber. 

When next he woke, he felt more like himself. His hands attempted to lift, a clatter of iron and greater weight proving that he was shackled. He moved to sit up but felt a hand press him back down against the wood. 

“Be still.” Again the voice like the sea washed over him, as did a warm and soothing feeling of respite. Above them, Davian could now make out the sound of footsteps walking slowly back and forth.

“Where am I?” Davian croaked nearly inaudibly. 

The white-haired man leaned a bit closer. “We are bound for sale.” His cool fingers probed at Davian’s eyebrow. “It healed well. Your eye seems focused…” The finger moving slowly one way then the other in front of his nose. “... Good. It left you with nothing more harmful than a bit of character. Rest while you can.” Wolna patted his shoulder and slipped off into the darkness.

Bound for sale? He had heard rumors of some secret underbelly of criminals in Wildemount that dealt in exporting slaves. Did it surprise him that somehow Viscardi was in league with them? Not at all. Why though had he not killed him on the spot? As the hours drifted by he concluded that the most likely reason was that Viscardi’s hired men were as greedy as their employer. Why report capturing an intruder at all. He was a man of imagination and he could easily envision the sort of scum that would work for Viscardi.

“ _Oh, yes, Mr. Viscardi, Sir. Someone broke into your fine home. Oh, and he took all those fancy golden things off your mantle_ …” He muttered under his breath in an unctuous voice. “... _we’re afraid he got away._ ” All the while knowing they’d sold him off to slavers to further pad their pockets. “ _We’d have chased him down but were so worried about poor Miss Bouchard.”_

It was easy to imagine her with crocodile tears running down her cheeks, milking her near-death for every drop of sympathy and reward she could. She'd probably empty out the jewelers of Port Damali. As devoid of decorum or charity as her lover. He retained his vow of vengeance on Viscardi of course, but now added the vicious vixen Rosamonde to those who he would see destroyed. He stewed in the darkest hours, his chains slightly musical as they chimed with every petting brush of his fingertips over his scar. Each facet of her face painted on his eyelids. How she had charmed him somehow, cast a spell that made him unable to move so she could gain the upper hand and attempt to blind him before calling down the guard to end his life. Oh, she would pay. 

The journey aboard the Myriad ship ended at a slip of deserted sand in the middle of the Lucidian somewhere. Starved, dehydrated, weak from immobility, Davian saw most of his fellow slaves were barely able to stand on their own as they were led off the ship and onto the beach. There were women and men alike though some could barely be called that as their years were too few to mark them with maturity. 

There were elves and humans, halflings and mixed races of all sorts set out like livestock. Large weathered chunks of wood, little more than slabs of felled trees dotted the beach. Each was emblazoned with a number and an iron ring to which each slave was chained in turn. As his own chain was latched to the wood he watched as a burly half-orc was pulled along and chained to the huge log near him. 

The half-orc was marked with tattoos down each arm and across the upper part of his shoulders in back. His slightly greenish skin was leathery and his hair touched with slivers of silver showing he was no youth, but of all of them, he was the only one with two sets of chains and a guard at his back. 

“Good morning, slaves.” A well-built human man of perhaps forty took a slow walk before the chained captives. “You are no doubt thirsty, weary, hungry?” His eyes were cold as they passed over them. “If you wish to be given anything to ensure your survival you will only get it from the ones who bid on you. Any product which is not sold is of no use to us and will not take up valuable space on the ship’s return to Port Damali. So I advise you to make them want you. Your only value is what they’ll pay and if they don’t, you’re useless.” 

Davian noted the half-orc stood straight and unflinching under the gaze of the slaver who was eyeing him. When the man moved away, the half-orc turned his head and caught Davian’s eyes. There was nothing in them but utter and complete hatred tempered by patience. Davian had once seen the same look in a captive lion’s eyes. Though he was not this man’s enemy, he shuddered none-the-less. 

As the sun rose, ships began to appear and like some ersatz market, folk of all sorts walked the line of chained slaves. Pausing to inspect and eye them, conversing in languages Davian did not understand. They would jot down the numbers of those that interested them then adjourn to a large tent where refreshments were being offered.

At the highest point of the sun, the sale began and the swift cadence of the auctioneer’s tongue was punctuated by the slam of the man’s palm to the table he stood behind, a halfling at his side writing down the winner’s name beside the lot number, another member taking the money. In less than a half-hour, it was over. Davian, along with several others, including the half-orc and the white-bearded Wolna, who now that he could see him was strangely blue-ish of skin, were chained into a line and led to a longboat bound for a red-sailed ship. 

Upon the deck of the Onyros, their lot was laid out. Seeing the riches it was capable of spawning, the Margrave of Stilben, acting on behalf of his backers, had purchased an island with the goal of gaining a toehold in the rising sugar market. The journey there would be but two days more, and once they arrived, they’d be put to the task of clearing the island to make it ready. This meant they were given good food, water, dry bunks and clean clothes. Their health was a requirement to get the work done. They were no less an investment than the mules in the cargo hold. Animals. Valuable only because they worked hard and were not cheap to replace.

Over the weeks that followed, Davian learned he had more in common with his fellow slaves than their chains. The half-orc, Thulgris, had been a fighter in Port Damali. Not well-known but up-and-coming by his own admission. He had laid out his latest opponent as one of the opening acts for the Godsbrawl festivities in record time. That opponent, however, had been backed by Viscardi.

“He came down after.” Thulgris grunted through his clenched teeth as he wound the rope around his bulky forearms and leaned back, the stump creaking and cracking under the force. “Offered me a pittance to become his man. Not even a third of my salary and no cut of the purse. It was insulting.” He yanked again and the roots tore free of the soil, the stump tumbling over as Davian and the others moved in to cut at the remaining roots and clear them out of the soil. “So I tell him no. This was obviously not smart. I am enjoying wine, food, celebration after win and when I am awakening, it is on the damned ship.” Talking as he drug the stump away toward the wagon where it and its brethren would be burned tonight. “With this.” He turned and showed a fresh tattoo on his chest. “This is a brand of one who has been cast out of the Brawler’s League for cheating. No one will ever hire me to fight for them again.” 

The one called Wolna, the water genasi, had been purchased to assure the workforce was kept supplied with clean water and good health. While he did not toil as Davian and Thulgris did, his work was no less important. In the cool hours of the night, when their twelve hours of work was ended, his had not, and would not. He was expected to be always at hand in case need arose and sleep was not something that came in large doses. He too had his reasons to hate Viscardi. 

“It was long ago.” The man had offered. “Viscardi was a young man. He was of the mind that whatever he wanted was his to take. He wanted my sister. He took her and he left her … broken. She took her own life soon after. I wanted revenge. He destroyed my mother’s business. She lost everything and we were left homeless. It took all I had to keep us from starvation. Slowly, we recovered but by then Viscardi had become untouchable.” A sad and bitter frown on his pale blue lips before he was called away. “Now I will never be able to give my sister’s spirit peace.” 

Davian understood that feeling. Of needing to mete out justice. It bonded the three of them with a single goal. Get free and get revenge. Weeks became months and though they worked night and day, the work was not progressing as their new owners desired. Had they thought that clearing an island was as easy as clearing an overgrown flower patch? There were more than the trees and thick brush to contend with. There were beasts and worse, their numbers despite Wolna’s work dwindled by a third in six months. This only meant the remaining men were pushed even harder. 

Requiring your slaves to be strong and resilient was a double-edged sword. Strong backs and arms made for quick work in cutting down trees, ripping out roots and tilling the land to make ready for growing a crop of sugarcane. Of course, that sword could just as quickly cut you when those same slaves had reached their limit of being subjugated. 

The inevitable uprising was bloody, cruel, and over in a day. Those who survived fell into two camps. Those who wanted to return to family and home, and those who had neither. The first group took a ship and sailed away to the nearest port to begin their way back. The second took control of The Onyros, rechristened it the Onyx, and turned to sail toward Marquet.

While an excellent fighter and a hale stump-puller, Thulgris was not a sailor by nature. Wolna was a man of skill in healing and a fair cook, but he knew little of ships either. The few who joined them were eager, but green so that left Davian, who had the most experience, to lead them. For several months they moved from port to port, Lucidian and Ozmit and back again. Gathering sailors, leaving men behind to take up new lives in new cities, eventually the now Captain Harcourt had both a good crew and a purpose of sorts. 

The Onyx became known as a ship that would take goods without much in the way of questions. Curiosity killed the kenku, they said, and enough coin made every tongue still. The Onyx would not traffic in slaves, but otherwise, whatever was in their hold was not their business. Little by little Davian planned to build up enough of a fortune that he could buy just a bit of the power that was needed to find an in. A path to Viscardi and the revenge that he and his friends craved so badly. 

A year passed and Viscardi seemed to grow only more distant, more protected. It seemed futile to imagine he’d ever get his chance. He’d had it once. When he’d had a knife in hand and Viscardi’s lover in his arms. He’d let it slip away but if the chance ever came again, he would not let it go so foolishly. Perhaps some benevolent deity was listening to that vow as his prayers were answered not a week later.


	4. Chapter 4

He had been in his preferred table in the distant corner of a dank shanty bar on the edges of Shammal Bay, wallowing in cheap liquor and self-pity when a scrape of chairs brought his attention from his mug to the men now across from him.

Farahan and Jalib Bennani were well known around the docks as being two of the most useless creatures in all of Marquet. They occasionally would take work on a ship, or around the docks but they were infamous for being the type who never wanted to do any real work, preferring instead to put their coin into get-rich-quick schemes. Their arrival was never a sign of anything good. 

“Afternoon, Cap’n Harcourt.” Farahan, the older and smarter of the pair grinned with a doffing of his greasy cap. “We was wondering if you’d be willing to listen to a little … proposition.” 

“I am far too sober to sit still for another of your pointless little schemes.” He tossed a few copper on the table. “Go buy a bottle and leave me be.” 

“You think we need your crumbs, Harcourt?” Jasib set a sack of coin down on the table with a hearty thud that drew the attention of the nearer tables’ occupants. 

“Put that away!” Farahan hissed under his breath as he looked around nervously, sliding the bag into an inner pocket of his ragged coat. Leaning in, a crooking finger indicating Davian should do likewise. “That was just the finder’s fee.”

“To find what?” Davian grumbled as he shifted forward, curiosity getting the better of him.

Farahan gave his coat another tug over his pigeon chest before adopting a very self-satisfied tone. “Well, you see, we were down at the docks this morning and we just so happened to overhear something interesting.” His black eyes glittering like the back of a desert beetle.

“Yeah.” Jasib interrupted. “This elf says to Cap’n Thiabault ‘Two hundred platinum.’”

Farahan gave a little sharp nudge to Jasib. “Hey, I’m telling it.” A curl of his lip before he smiled again when he looked Davian’s way. “As he said, we were having a rest after a long shift, and this elf comes up to Captain Thiabault. He says he’s a job for him. Well, he pulls the captain aside and they talk all quiet and then Thiabault stands straight and he shakes his head.” 

“And he says ‘I’m not the man you’re looking for.’ “ Jasib interrupted again with a spot-on imitation of Thiabauld’s rather prim tone. “‘I advise you look elsewhere.’” 

“Then…” Farahan frowned and snatched back the reins of the tale. “The elf says ‘Not even for two hundred platinum?’ and again, Captain Thiabauld turns him down flat. Seems whatever the elf wanted the captain didn’t have the stones.” 

Davian was hardly surprised. While he was a fine sailor, Thiabault was perhaps a bit too far to the side of nobility and goodness. He’d have made a fine paladin of the Dawnfather. “I’ll ask again, what’s this got to do with you?”

“ Well, we figured maybe we could do whatever the job was ourselves. Two hundred platinum? It was worth a try. So we walked up and offered our services.” Farahan shrugged.

Jasib’s face went from cocky to disgusted in a moment. “Stuck up little pointy-eared git said he didn’t deal with deck rats.” Sneering the last part. 

“But…” Farahan interrupted slickly. “We might have lied a bit. Said that what we meant to say was that we were sure _our captain_ would be agreeable to the job, whatever it might be. That he didn’t like strangers but…” He gave his brother a grin. “If he gave us a bit of a finder’s fee, we’d talk him up. Convince our Captain he was a good egg and all that. Butter ‘im up and make things go smoother.” So, he tosses us this..” patting the purse in his inner pocket. “... and says ‘Be here in an hour and there’d be another hundred in it for you.’” 

Jasib leaned in closer, his lip twitching faintly at the tense urgency he no doubt felt. “So what ya say? Sure as sunrise you could use two hundred platinum. Even if you turn him down though, we get paid. We’re willing to cut you in. Twenty-five silver just to listen to his lips flap.”

Sitting back, Davian set his steepled fingers to his lips and pushed his slightly tipsy brain to function as it had not in a long while. Two hundred platinum was a proper fortune. It would make his ultimate goal far more realistic. That much money though? It had to be something truly unsavory the elf wanted. 

Well, he could always refuse if it was too dangerous or too unsettling and be twenty-five silver richer. He could take it and subcontract, though that had inherent risks of its own. Five full minutes passed as he thought over it, the other two getting antsier with every inch the band of sunlight on the bar floor shrank.

“Fine.” Davian pulled his coat from the chair behind him as he rose. “Show me.”

The elf was not quite what Davian expected. Being honest, he’d expected a half-elven sailor or perhaps one of Ki-Nau lineage, a sun-baked son of the sea, a furtive member of the Clovis Concord or perhaps some offshoot faction of pirates attempting to avoid giving the Plank King of Darktow his due.

Instead, he was, as they said, elven and wholly so. Exceedingly pale and elegant, his long platinum hair was drawn back into a ponytail tied by a black satin ribbon. He wore a coat and breeches of dark and rich material and a vest of claret brocade. His cuffs were lace-edged and his shoes shone, as did the silver buckles upon them. He was too fine a figure to be a mere merchant or some blackguard lowlife of the sea.

The eyes that scanned Davian as he approached were such a light tint of blue that it seemed from a distance that there were no irises at all. Everything about him read as haughty, disdainful, and displeased at having to be on the docks at all. Those icy eyes flicked to the brothers, disgust in his face for the blind avarice in their features.

“Dismissed.” Davian gave them a flick of his hand dismissively, playing the role of their captain to aid the ruse. “We sail at high tide. Enjoy your leave while you can.”

Jasib looked to be about to protest when Farhan took his arm tightly. “Aye-aye Captain.” He drug his brother away with quiet hissing mutters, heading down the row of docked ships. They would simply have to trust they’d get their payout. 

Turning back to the elf he crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay, now tell me what this is about.”

“You employ those… men?” The elf drew himself up and arched a thin brow, the pale eyes rolling over Davian in judgment.

“Someone’s got to scrub the bilges and scrape the barnacles off.” An offhand sort of tone as Davian shrugged. “There are many tasks on the ship not worth putting able and clever men to. You understand.”

“Indeed I do.” A slow nod. “Occasionally one must hire those beneath themselves to do unpleasant tasks.”

Davian prickled at the bald-faced insult woven into those words but bit back his temper to show only casual interest. “The job?”

“Yes. My employer has found himself entangled in a rather thorny situation. He entered into a contract with a business associate last spring and he cannot void the contract, but neither does he wish to completely honor the terms.”

Davian narrowed his eyes. “And this has to do with me...how?”

“You see, Signor Viscardi is a man of wealth and respectability…” The elf began.

Davian’s heart lurched in his chest at hearing the name, but he kept his features unreadable. “Go on.”

“Yes, well he agreed to marry the daughter of a merchant on the Menagerie Coast, one who handles getting my employer’s product to nearly every inn, tavern, bakery, and general goods store from Nicodranas to the Marrow Valley. His contacts alone make him a worthy partner. The trouble, you see,” the elf hemmed and hawed a bit, a faint pink taking his cheek.

“The lady in question, her … suitability has been put into question. Rumors have reached my employer’s ears that this woman he is to marry is … well, let us say she is far too free with her affections. My employer does not wish to, and please forgive my vulgarity, be yoked to a beast already ridden to worthlessness.” He made a look of disgust. “Yet, if he refuses her, he breaks the contract with her father.”

“And ‘keep your slut daughter, just peddle my product’ is hardly what any father wants to hear.” Davian said with caustic sarcasm.

“Precisely. The lady is being delivered, along with a very large cargo of needed goods for his plantation in just a few weeks. He would like for something to … happen to the ship. For the lady to fail to make the journey but for his other goods to be unharmed.”

“Which is why you chose to come here and not somewhere like Darktow or Port Damali. You’re looking for someone who can see that while it’d be easy to just take the ship, all the goods, sell them off and make a tidy sum, it’s not the money that’s the prize. It’s the favor of your employer.” Davian smiled, bucking the role of ‘desperate man with low morals who’d do anything for a good payday’ that the elf had cast him in. While it was not that far from the truth, he wanted it made clear that Davian Harcourt was no man’s pawn. “A powerful man like Signor Viscardi can’t risk being tied to the murder of his fiance...”

“No, no ... not murder.” The elf interjected, shaking his head vehemently then took a deep calming breath and continued with his rehearsed presentation. “One hundred platinum will be sent to your ship within the hour. Two of my men will bring it and remain aboard to ensure you do not forget the terms of your agreement. That agreement being that you will take this woman, and _only_ this woman from the ship. You will sail for Stilben where my agents will attend to her sale. Then you have only to return to Te’epala with the receipt and the remainder of your reward will be yours.” He gave Davian a cool appraising glance. “That is, if we have an agreement, Captain...?” The dual question of Davian’s name and the acceptance of the terms hanging between them.

Davian thought it through quickly. He could set sail, feed Viscardi’s men to the sharks and he’d have one hundred platinum on hand to quietly fund his vengeance. No doubt Viscardi would then put out a similar contract on The Onyx. Davian was willing to risk his life, but not his ship, and damn sure not his crew.

On the other hand, he could just do the job. The bill of sale would give him a ticket to reach Viscardi. Once he got close, he could stab the bastard in the heart and die knowing he’d honored his vow at last.

If it worked out that he never got that close, well, at least he’d have two hundred platinum to use to find another way to end Viscardi’s life. The woman would, no doubt, be purchased by one of the many brothels that dotted that fetid town. His scar twinged as her face swam up in his mind’s eye again. It would be so very enjoyable to see her again. Quite a tumble for the poor lass, from elegant lady to dockside strumpet, ripped from her fine house to servicing the swamp-moldy dregs of Stilben and he frankly couldn’t wait to see it.

“Captain Harcourt of The Onyx.” He gave a slight bob of his head. “I agree to your employer’s terms. I look forward to delivering the receipt for the slut to Signor Viscardi myself.” He gave a smile that spoke of a black-hearted nature that was not usually true for him, but in her case, he’d make an exception. 

“Very good, Captain Harcourt.” The elf stepped back, paused and withdrew a small purse. “For your barnacle scrubbers as promised.” His smile betrayed his opinion of them as well as his desire to not seem to be the sort who did not pay his debts. With a toss of the bag, he turned and walked away toward his own ship. The sands were now running through the hourglass.

Jasib and Farahan were, as he knew they would be, skulking just out of view. He tossed them their coin and they were gone before he could even speak a word. It mattered little. He needed to get to the Onyx where he called a swift meeting of his most trusted crew. There he laid out the job, and the true plan behind it. He needed the crew’s agreement before Viscardi’s men arrived. 

“It’s not our way!” Wolna hissed under his breath. “We don’t trade in slaves.” 

“Captain knows what he’s doing.” Thulgris said, his arms crossing over his bare chest. “He’s told us about the wench enough that I see it more like… one good thing leading to another.” 

It was true. Davian had spoken of her often. Even a year later she still haunted his dreams from time to time. Though he’d less than a minute’s worth of interaction with her, the scar reminded him how crafty and cruel she was and his imagination filled in the rest. 

“If it bothers you so much, Wolna, you can stay here.” Davian said evenly, daring his man to argue further.

“You need me.” Said simply, and Wolna gave no further argument. For the next half-hour they plotted just how they would proceed. 

The plan was to sail to the waters of the Lucidan, wait near Vide Cay and swoop up behind the Arethuse, overtaking her before she got too far. They would take the woman and leave the ship to limp back to a safe port and be gone before the Clovis Concord got wind of it. 

That the battle to take the Arethuse would cost the lives of both of Viscardi’s men was also agreed upon. Things happened in battle that could not be helped after all. Until then, everyone aboard would be instructed to either feign muteness, ignorance, or a foreign tongue if either man asked any questions out of the usual. 

The men arrived with the chest of coin as promised. They requested a room with privacy and vanished into the provided space and, for the most part, kept to themselves the whole of the journey. Within a fortnight the Onyx was slipping into a path of interception that would end with Davian having, at last, the first real step toward his vengeance on both Viscardi and that heartless bitch Rosamonde.


	5. Chapter 5

“Ooh, look, a book shop!”

“Mistress, we cannot. You must be on the Arethuse when it sails, and that is less than one hour away.” Juliana attempted to both keep her eye on her mistress and the people around them. 

“But I will be so dreadfully bored! Three weeks locked away with nothing to do.” Pouting as she shifted her parasol to better block the sun. “We can take a little detour, surely.” Her tone brightening. “They would never dare to leave without me. Come, Juliana.” Turning on her slippered toe, she began to walk off in the direction of the bookseller and Juliana had no choice but to heft the bags in hand and follow. 

Every eye, it seemed, shifted as Rosamonde Bouchard passed and Juliana could hardly blame them. Her mistress was a beautiful woman. Still, she kept a very wary eye on any whose looks lingered longer than a few seconds. It had been a year since they had visited the coast but Juliana did not so easily forget what had happened last time. 

Her mistress, Rosamonde Bouchard, had been the greatest fool who ever lived. It was not her fault really. She’d been spoiled and given all she wanted her whole life. Why should it ever occur to her that her caprices might end badly? 

When Signor Viscardi had come to Nicodranas that spring, it had been a whirlwind of balls and parties, theater and dancing. Flowers and jewels and worship. She had agreed to flee her father’s home and join him at his island palace where they would be wed and she would be the grand lady to a devoted, adoring and obscenely wealthy man who, unlike her father, saw her as a woman, not a child. Of course, it had all been a lie.

When they arrived on Sifa there had been no offer of marriage, only an invitation to be his mistress, one of many, and to remain in Port Damali as his ‘incentive’ to help persuade fellow businessmen to do as he wished. In effect, to whore herself out to his friends. Rosamonde had, to Juliana’s great pride, slapped him so hard she drew blood and locked herself in her room. Viscardi had raged but perhaps valued the woodwork, so left the door unbroken. 

“I will return tonight, and when I do, you will do as I bid, or I will send every wicked letter you have ever penned to your father. To every family of standing in the Menagerie Coast. You will be ruined, your father will be shamed, he will lose everything!” He’d raged from his side of the door. “So be ready, legs spread and mouth shut when I get back or I will be most displeased!” 

Juliana had remained hidden in the dusting cupboard until long after the sound of the front door slamming had faded to silence. Once she’d made her way to the window, assuring herself the great ship was halfway to Port Damali, she ran to her mistress’s door. She could hear the sobbing behind it. 

“Mistress, please. Open the door. He has gone. We have to get you out of here.” 

Minutes passed, but at last she opened the door, her face tear-stained but determined. “How? He owns everything. They are his men, his boats, his island...” 

“I have a plan.” She dried her mistress’s tears. “It is not a certainty, and you will need to be very brave but even if it should fail you will be no worse off than you are now, Mistress.” She laid out her idea, and it was decided that there was no better idea forthcoming and time was short. They had to try.

A half hour later, her face washed and painted, Rosamonde Bouchard was dressed in her finest gown. Her dark ebony hair drawn into a glimmering twist, the soft ivory of her shawl draped in alluring contrast with the honey-caramel of her skin, both a gift from her Marqeusian mother. With an imperial air, she walked the long stairwell down to the dock. 

Juliana had laid all her coin on the thought that Viscardi would never tell anyone he’d been turned down for anything. That the guards did not intercept them made her feel more confident in her guess. 

“I am going to join Signore Viscardi.” Rosamonde said with a little disdainful flick of her eyes across the guard. “So move.” 

“Why didn’ ya go when he left?” His eyes moving over her in a most impudent caress. “How come he left ya all alone.” 

Rosamonde huffed and batted her lashes as she looked away, showing only annoyance. . “I took too long getting ready, it seems, and he said that it would teach me a lesson to have to ride to shore in … that.” She gave a curl of lip and gesture at the tidy but plain longboat still bobbing at the dock. Her gaze sharpened as she stepped forward, her finger poking at the guard. “I will not miss that party!” she flounced and crossed her arms petulantly. “And I am quite sure that Rhys will be most displeased if I am not there. He had friends he wished me to meet.” 

The guard shared a look with another and, for a moment, Juliana’s heart was in her throat. With an overly unctuous bow, he gestured for her to pass and a pair of men climbed into the boat, taking up the oars. “Your ladyship’s yacht awaits.” 

She let him help her down into the rocking boat, quickly taking a seat and holding tight to the wood beneath her. It was then that Juliana’s plan came undone. The letters. If Viscardi had them, it did not matter if her Mistress escaped. “Mistress, I am glad you reached the dock safely.” Her eyes on Rosamonde’s she, thankfully, was able to convey that she ought not argue. “I will prepare your room for your return. I wish you a pleasant evening.” She bowed her head and stepped back, almost knocked down by a group of four more men coming past from behind her. 

“Hold the boat.” They climbed in and took up the remainder of the seats. 

“It’ ain’t fair” The guard grumbled.

“Hey, you pulled the short straw, Kevis.” One of the men laughed. “Don’t worry, we’ll tell you aaallll about it when we get back.” 

“Back with our winnings!” Another man chimed in and patted a purse at his side. 

“You got mine, yeah?” The guard called Kevis pouted. 

“Don’t you worry. We’ll place your bet.” The boat shoved off and with a last look of desperation, she turned and ran up the long staircase. Breathless by the time she reached the house, she shut and locked the door, her back pressed against it. She’d be a fool to completely put aside the scenario that, being all alone here, someone might wish to take advantage. No footsteps, no lights coming up the stairs. She was safe. 

The empty house now loomed around her. She gathered up her skirts and climbed the stairs. She would start in Signor Viscardi’s room. Something so personal, she assumed, he’d want to keep close. An hour of searching resulted in nothing. At least, not what she sought. She had been cautious, fearful he would somehow have placed safeguards on his things. Whether it was hubris or stupidity, he had none. 

The drawers beside his bed hosted the most wicked sort of items but no letters. No loose board in the floor, nothing beneath his bed but dust and boxes of truly disgusting artworks depicting things that made her flesh crawl to even imagine were possible. She was just scooting out when her arm struck one of the supports for the mattress and a glint caught her eye. She reached up and pulled it down as she slid out from beneath the bed. 

It was a small chest with a raised symbol that looked like a sun, five large rays and five smaller surrounding a pentagon shaped gemstone at the center. Try as she might, it would not open. In the end, she took the poker from the fireplace and smashed it, finding letters, a small bag of platinum, and a ring with the same crest. The letters proved to be from someone named ‘Elon Diartin’ and a hasty scan showed they seemed to be in regard to some cargo bound for Stilben. Useless.

She needed the room to look untouched, so she burned the broken bits of box as well as the letter. The ring and platinum she tossed under the bed. She did not want his treasures, she wanted those letters. She looked down, noting that her dress was covered at the hem with soot and she was leaving a trail where she walked. In a huff she stripped it off, using it to sweep away the black dust back toward the fireplace. Her dress too would be sacrificed to the flames as were her shoes and stockings. Being careful to not get the soot on her feet, she moved on to the next place that seemed reasonable. Viscardi’s study. 

She tiptoed in, setting the unlit candle down before closing the draperies tightly. The stub was lit then, giving little light but too much would betray her presence even through the heavy curtains. Every drawer on the desk was locked and no doubt he had the key with him. She scanned the surface for something she might use to pry the drawers open, but there was not even a letter opener amidst the silvery desk set. Panic was setting in. 

She turned to the books, holding up the candle stub, its guttering light passing over the spines, each pristine. These were for show. Viscardi was not a reader. Low on a shelf was one that had creases at the edge. That same symbol, the pentagon-sun, in a faded gold leaf on the spine. She pulled it out slowly, a small catch and she stopped. 

Crouching down, holding up the candle, she could see it was not a proper book, but some sort of box, a tiny hook attached to a spring was hooked over a small hole in the top. Deftly, slowly, she wiggled her pinky nail under the hook and held the tension as she slid the book out with her other hand. Equally slowly, she let the tension ease, letting the spring coil again and then letting it go. What might have happened did not, but she was quick to grab the false book and crawl away. 

It was not the letters either. It was, however, a treasure for within the myriad items lay a spare desk key. She snapped it up and within moments had found, in a false bottom, a stack of folded letters whose hand she knew by heart. She had to burn them and then get out. She could go back to the fire burning in Viscardi’s room. That was what she’d do. First she had to put the fake book back. She moved toward the bookshelf and set the letters down when a soft creak sent her to turn quickly, a blade at her throat before she could draw a breath. 

The man was filthy and wild-eyed. His beard and hair a tangle of brown like a thorn bush, his eyes burning from within. She threw her hand up, a placating gesture, swallowing past the lump in her throat. He was not a guard. She wanted to plead with him to take anything from the house that he wished, but to let her live. Even if he were set for some act less savory, she could survive that and burn the letters when he’d gone. 

His eyes held her, such hatred, such sadness. She could see peripherally that the door behind him was half open. If she could get past him, she could get into the hall and call the guards down. They would be so busy with the intruder they would not notice her throwing something on a fire, nor if she slipped away and escaped into the night. His arm shook faintly, perhaps his resolve was fading. She would test it. 

Feigning a swoon, his blade dropped and she swung out, knocking it one way while she ran the other. Grabbing up the inkwell she threw it, hoping it would spill and blind him, but the ink splashed only his shoulder while the square edge of silver filigree tore into his brow. She could not pause for sympathy, throwing all she could reach and rushing for the door. 

He threw an arm out but she ducked it and darted through the open portal, racing down the hall toward the stairs. She was nearly there when his arm swung from behind and snatched her up, her feet kicking and her hands clawing at him until she felt the pick of a knife blade in her ribs. She remained tense, but stopped kicking. She had to think. Had to plan. The letters were still back in the study. If she died now, all this would be for nothing. 

“Rosamonde Bouchard…” His voice a low growl in her ear, thick with the stink of one who did not care for his hygiene. “I have a message for your lover.” He thought she was Rosamonde? If she corrected him, he would have no reason to keep her alive. Yet it was obvious it was her mistress he’d come to do harm to. She waited, braced for the pain, but it did not come. His rancid breath was quick and soft in her ear, his strong arm keeping her held to his body which, despite the raggedness and rough attire felt strong and well-made. 

Seconds ticked by and his voice came again. Softly, edged in misery. “Damn you…” He all but groaned it, a sound of heartbreak that would haunt her. With it came a loosening of his tight grip, a dip of the dagger, her toes touched carpet and she pulled away, screaming for the guards, having seen the lanterns passing just outside the downstairs window. 

He growled and with burning hatred in his eyes he darted back as he’d come, shutting himself in the study just as the doors were thrown open, a pair of guards pouring inside, lantern high and weapons drawn. “Thief… there is a thief in Signor Viscardi’s study.. he tried to..” She did not have to feign the panic or the welling tears as one fled to ring the alarm bell and the other ran up the stairs and past her, throwing his weight against the locked door. It gave with a crack. “He’s gone out the window!” He raced by her as the bells echoed across the island. 

Hurrying through the broken doorway, she snatched up the letters and raced back to Viscardi’s room. Using the poker to spread them as they burned, she made sure not even a single syllable would remain. Slipping back to her room as the bells fell quiet again, she hurriedly dressed and had just finished tying her apron when the door flew open. 

“The thief is caught.” The guard said with a clipped manner. “You are uninjured?” 

“I am quite well, thank you.” 

“What in the nine hells!” A shrieking male voice rose from downstairs and the guard turned and hurried away. She followed, recognizing it. 

“Captain Eirenus.” She smiled from the balcony, passing the guard and ignoring his look of clouded distrust. “What brings you here?” Her heart was light. If he were here, it meant her mistress had arrived in Port Damali safely. 

“All the damn bells.” He huffed. “My champion was first to fall and I was in no mood to deal with the parties so I thought… far as I can get from the port while I lick my wounds. Peace.” He huffed, his fingers brushing his breastbone in a show of delicacy. “All I wanted. Then the bells started pealing out through the night and I saw all the lights bobbing about willy-nilly… I knew that Signor Viscardi and his lady were at the arena, I’d seen them there so that left the house empty. I feared it might be something dreadful so I pulled up close, had my men row me to shore, and hoped I might lend a hand?” Looking past her to the guard and two more that were coming from the back part of the house. 

“We got it under control.” There was a thinly veiled threat of menace in the words. “So you can go.” 

“There was a thief.” She said softly. “But the guards have dealt with him. Everything is taken care of.” She nodded, knowing he’d understand her true meaning. 

“A thief? How dreadful. He didn’t hurt you did he?” Captain Eirenus gave a little squeak of unease and began turning her this way and that as if he could see through her clothes to any hidden fingerprints left behind. “Oh, you poor dear girl!” He pulled her close in an embrace that set his robes of satin and silk to flutter and his jewel-drenched fingers patted the back of her head, cradling her to his perfumed breast for a moment. 

“This will not do!” he pushed her away gently, still holding her arms as he looked at the guards. “You may tell Signor Viscardi that his lady’s property is safe with me on my ship. I will return to Port Damali and she may be retrieved there.” His tone was one that spoke of a man whose word was not questioned. . 

The guards shared a look, then the one called Kevis gave a nod. “That’s fine. Do you need one of us to show you back to the dock, Sir?”

“No no, I have it. Not so old that I can’t follow my own nose.” He slid an arm around her shoulder and waved with his other. “Ta-ta, boys.” His lilting call cast back without looking. He kept up the ruse of the dandy until they reached the docks, and fell to silence during the trip back to his yacht.

“Are you alright?” His voice dropped a half octave once they were secured in his private parlor. “When Miss Bouchard sent word to my box at the arena … I was hardly expecting to have such an adventure.” he exhaled softly. “I need a drink.” 

Stripping off the garish robe, clad in the simple shirt of silk and blue trousers, he looked as she’d seen him the countless times her Mistress had visited him over the years. Not the dandy that he pretended to be in public but a shrewd man who knew that if no one took him seriously, they would let their guard down. “Tell me everything.”

Juliana began at the beginning, telling him of the promise, the threat, the letters. How she’d had no choice but to stay behind and of her search for the letters. He listened with keen interest, especially when she mentioned the box in the bedroom and the paperwork inside. 

“I thought to try his study and, after some searching, I found a spare key to the desk and the letters were under a false bottom in a drawer. I was just going to destroy them when the assassin showed up.”

“Assassin? I thought you said it was a thief?” He sat forward, his emptied glass set on the table beside his chair. 

“Oh no. He had come to kill my mistress, but …” She was still plagued by that incongruous detail. “If you wished to kill someone, would your first step not be to tell the killer what she looked like? Some detail? He mistook me for her!” 

The captain blinked and looked equally shocked. There was no way anyone could mistake them for one another. Rosamonde was toffee-skinned and slender with hair that framed her face in an elegant coiffure as dark as ebony. She was delicate as a fawn with bright eyes framed by khol black lashes and a mouth of wine-hued softness. Juliana was fair, her bisque-pale skin marred by freckles that worsened under the sun, her hair the color of straw, the strands most often arranged in a thick braid that was twisted upon itself in a severe bun at the back of her scalp. While Rosamonde was dainty as a dove, Juliana was a head taller and larger at every measure. That had been the point when Juliana had been selected in her youth. Rosamonde had wanted a servant who no one could possibly think was a relation, even at a distance. 

“How did you get away? He asked, settling back in his chair. 

“He had the knife at my ribs but … he couldn’t do it. Another reason I doubt he was a professional. He said he had a message for Signore Viscardi, but he did not tell me what it was.” She sighed, again remembering his last words, so filled with utter misery. “He loosened his grip for just a moment and I took advantage. I called down the guard and he ran. When the house was empty, I quickly burned the letters. I intended to await the authorities but you arrived first.” 

“Well, Rosamonde safe back at the manse. Tomorrow I will put you in a carriage to Nicodranas myself and you both can put tonight behind you.” 

“I hope we can, Captain.” She had slipped to silent thought, wondering over the fate of the poor assassin. Despite his intentions he had been the one left injured. She felt guilty for calling the guards, but he’d given her no choice. No doubt he would spend a good few weeks in a cell for his attempt to rob Signore Viscardi, but that was a small sentence compared to murder. So, she’d done him a favor. She let that soothe her conscience and set her mind to worry about the future. Whoever he was, he’d be fine.


	6. Chapter 6

The moment they arrived in Nicodranas Rosamonde told her father everything. Well, not _everything_. She didn’t mention the letters of course and the scene of the ‘improper proposal’ was switched from his private island to his private box in the arena before Godsbrawl. Her father was naturally upset, spending an hour or two planning a thousand ways to separate Viscardi from his manly bits while at the same time pouring out a litany of _I told you so’s _at his daughter.__

__By the evening, he had calmed and a choice was given. She could choose one of the many suitors she had been stringing along, or she could be sent to the temple of Bahamut in Zadash where she would spend her remaining years as a temple servant, condemned to a life of chastity and charitable work. It was no surprise that Rosamonde chose the option most likely to keep her in jewels and fine gowns._ _

__“So, Juliana…” She’d said as she was sitting before her vanity mirror having her hair brushed the following morning. “Who should I choose?” An almost giddy smile on her lips._ _

__Juliana didn’t understand how she could be so free and easy about something that would change her life so drastically. Both of their lives actually, as she fully expected to serve her mistress until death. “Well, Mistress, I would not say that Masters Ginanno or Pelian would suit you. They are fine men, but too seasoned to prove a good companion.”_ _

__“You mean they’re too old.” The dark haired woman smirked into the mirror, her eyes fixed on the reflection over her shoulder. “On which I agree. What about Barron Thendral? He is half-elven so his age is not so great a worry.”_ _

__“But his purse is, Mistress.” Juliana continued her gentle detangling. “He is too prone to gambling and his fortunes are apt to be bled away until you have the title but little else.”_ _

__“You’ve a point.” She sighed. “That leaves either Agostin… or Darras.” She sighed. “The halfling or my cousin.”_ _

__Juliana chuckled softly and began to braid. “Master Carriker is not a halfling. He may not be your tallest suitor…”_ _

__“He is the exact same height as I! How can I dance when his face is right here.” She brandished her open hand before her nose, then shifted into an erect posture again. “A gentleman should be head and shoulders above his lady. That is what is proper.”_ _

__“He could always stand on his purse.” Juliana teased a bit. “Then he’d be ten feet tall.”_ _

__When that earned a smile, Juliana continued, now twisting the braids into an elegant updo. “And then there is Master il Azim. He is tall… young enough but also of a good age… he is handsome, he is wealthy…” her tone one of encouragement by subtlety._ _

__“He is my cousin.” that sing-song tone mimicked._ _

__“Only by marriage, Mistress. Instead of thinking of him as cousin, think of him as your mother’s sister’s husband’s first wife’s son.”_ _

__“He _is_ very handsome.” She admired her reflection, turning her head this way and that as the coiled braids were adorned with pearl-topped pins. “And I suppose I am as much a Marquesian as I am Menagerie.”_ _

__“Shamahl is said to be the most lovely of cities. It is a trade port so there is always something new to look at. The sands are white as snowfall, and the sea there is a blue green of a peacock’s tail.”_ _

__Rosamonde screwed up her lips and narrowed her eyes. “Why are you pressing so hard that I choose Darras?”_ _

__“Because…” Juliana met her mistress’s eyes. She could not lie to her. “Marquet is far from here. I worry still that Signore Viscardi will do something to have vengeance for your refusal of him. He is a bad man, Mistress. I am afraid of him, for your sake.” She stepped back a step. “Though what I have said in praise of Master il Azim is no less true. He is a good match for you, Mistress. His temperament is neither too cool nor too fiery. He will not abandon his work every night to seek indulgence, but neither will he forego the pleasures of a fine life.”_ _

__“You seem to know a great deal about him.” Her tone slightly jealous as Rosamonde rose from her stool and stalked toward where her dress for the day was laid out._ _

__“It is my duty to advise you, Mistress. I study your suitors with an eye that is more about study of their person rather than romance. They do not note me, or when they do it is only as another servant. There is a good deal one can tell from how a man treats those who are beneath him.” Beginning the work of dressing her mistress for the morning._ _

__“Well…” She sniffed softly. “I suppose that is what you are trained to do. To keep an open eye, to listen, to give advice. Had I listened to you in Port Damali I would never have gotten on that damned yacht in the first place so... “ She sighed and lifted her arms so the belt could be wrapped around her waist. “I will trust your wisdom. I will tell father I choose Darras.”_ _

__Thus, when Viscardi appeared a week later on the doorstep, posing as a devoted suitor, her father had sadly informed him his daughter was already betrothed to a distant cousin in Marquet and was no longer on the market. Viscardi was, naturally, disappointed, but Samual Bouchard did not make his fortune by being a fool. As much as he had despised the man’s intentions, it was often easier to keep one’s enemies where you could see them._ _

__By afternoon’s end an agreement was in place that gave Bouchard a contract to become the sole import business to receive Viscardi’s sugar, molasses, rum and other products. In return, Viscardi’s portion of the profits made was, if not the number he’d sought, a satisfactory amount. Everyone got what they wanted. Juliana had watched Signore Viscardi depart from the house, and she saw the look on his face. She doubted that he was as pleased with the arrangement as he had let Master Bouchard believe._ _

__The distance between Shamal and Nicodranas was not insurmountable, but it presented issues nonetheless. It took several weeks to send word to Shamal, weeks more to get a reply. Three months had passed before the final arrangements were made. It would take a year before things were readied in Shamal, and Juliana, fearful of reprisal from Viscardi or his men, suggested that father and daughter take that year to spend as much time as possible together. She knew well this would mean they would leave Nicodranas for several months, spending a slow, meandering circle through the cities of the Marrow Valley and the Zemni Fields as Master Bouchard touched base with his business associates and sought to make new ones._ _

__Thus passed the lion’s share of the year. Her mistress attempted to buy out every shop in the Tri-Spires district of Zadash, weeks passed basking in the beauty of fields and mountains and lakes as their carriage followed the Amber Road. She sampled wines in Kamordah and ales in Berleben. Rosamonde had flirtations galore and was happy as the proverbial clam. It took longer than first planned, as there were a few knots needing undone and a few new arrangements needing to be knit up carefully, but, with a week to go, they arrived at the family home outside of Nicodranas just in time to pack for the journey._ _

__The plan was that they would take a merchant ship, The Arethuse, from Nicodranas to Port Damali where Captain Eirenus would take them by airship to Ank’harel. From there they would journey by caravan to Shamal, and her new life as wife to one of the most wealthy men in all Marquet would begin. The goodbyes were not tearful, but the time together had indeed brought them closer. It was a happy by-product of keeping her mistress safe._ _

__Now, in the slightly dust-smelling confines of the book shop, Juliana was doing her best to get her Mistress to choose quickly so they did not miss their ship. Rosamonde idly drifted through rows of histories and brightly illustrated books on flora and fauna before she turned to her true goal. The stacks of romantic stories, the tawdrier the better._ _

__“What do you think of this one?” Rosamonde asked in a soft murmur, holding up a copy of _ **The Temptation of Miralar**_ Its simple deep blue cover showing a silvery painted silhouette of an obviously elven-featured head and hand holding up what seemed an apple hovering over his slender fingers._ _

__“I have not read it, Mistress.” She said gently. “I cannot say I know the author either.”_ _

__“I’m getting it.” She wrinkled her nose. “Elves are hot.” Another quarter hour passed before she was content to be nudged to move on. In the end she had purchased ten books, all saucy tales of lust and passion, a box of plain ivory stationery, and an empty notebook. A paper bag with ribbon handles now hanging over Juliana’s wrist in addition to the other parcels and bags she juggled in the wake of her mistress._ _

__There were stops at a chocolatier to purchase a large box of bonbons, a jeweler to choose a bracelet of gold with small polished tiger’s eye gems as a gift to her intended, a new dressing gown and slippers to match it and a stall selling watercolors of the Mother’s Lighthouse before Juliana managed to persuade Rosamonde to finally turn her steps toward The Arethuse._ _

__The bright sails and sheer size of the massive galleon docked at the southern side of the Larboard Light district made Rosamonde give a little coo of delight but the sound of the wind through the rigging and a distinct lack of anyone on deck made the little hairs on Juliana’s neck prickle as they boarded._ _

__“You must be Miss Bouchard.” A slightly portly man hurried up toward them, motioning them to follow him toward the open door leading down into the ship. “I am captain Nica. The crew has been sent ashore so there are few who will know you are here. Safer that way you know.”_ _

__Juliana could tell that he was trying very hard to be civilized. His hair was obviously not accustomed to the generous amount of whatever pomade he had liberally applied to make the wild mane of steel-gray lie slick to his head. As he walked, bits began to poke up here and there like a frightened porcupine. His coat was fine, but either borrowed or very old as it did not fit him properly across the belly or shoulders and made him stand at once both hunched and sucked-in._ _

__“It is not the most glamorous, I will confess.” Captain Nico muttered as he led them through a maze of crates. “But The Arethuse not a passenger ship. We don’t usually have guests especially um…” he cleared his throat behind a lifted fist, cheeks burning to his ears. “Feminine guests. Ah, here we are.”  
He pulled on what appeared to be nothing more than a crate of tools. Shovels and flat-bladed hoes peeking through the slats amidst the wood straw. This was an illusion, however, as it was actually a door, several inches thick. _ _

__The room beyond was small, a single bed at one end had been recently bolted to the floor, a pair of familiar trunks were beneath it, a webbing of rope tied to the bedframeto keep them stable. Another chest was provided at the foot of the bed. A brass lantern was hanging from the low ceiling, swaying faintly._ _

__“Your father said to make certain you had a pleasant journey. We know you’ll not be on the good ship Arethuse for long, but while you’re with us, we’ll do our best to ensure your comfort.” He doubtlessly was hoping that a good word might be put in for him with the owner of the Twin Moons._ _

__“It is very lovely, Captain Nica. We shall be quite comfortable, I am sure.” It was obvious the polite smile that Rosamonde was offering was too tight and her eyes betrayed her reticence utterly, but Juliana was glad that, for all her flaws, Rosamonde was still in possession of good manners. The captain seemed satisfied and with a curt nod, excused himself, shutting the door behind him._ _

__The moment they were alone, Rosamonde dropped onto the bed with a huff. “Ugh, what a dreary man.” Pulling her gloves off and laying them beside her. “Here is hoping his crew is more attractive.” A little glint in her eye that Juliana knew too well._ _

__“Mistress, we must remain in this room for the whole of the journey.”_ _

__“You cannot be serious!” She gaped and flounced a bit in childish pique. “I shall go mad!”_ _

__“Mistress, it is only a few days. You will be aboard the airship for far longer.”_ _

__“There I shall be able to see the whole of Exandria spread out beneath me. I won’t be shoved into some closet like a… like a…” She sputtered. “Like a dress that no longer fits.”_ _

__“It is not a closet, Mistress. I believe we’re contraband.”_ _

__Rosamonde gasped. “We’re being _smuggled_ into Port Damali?” Her tone shifted to one of almost giddy glee. “Such intrigue!” _ _

__Juliana set about putting her mistress’s things away in the chest at the foot of the bed. The novelty of being bootleg cargo would no doubt swiftly fade and it would prove to be a long week of working to keep her mistress from going stir crazy. In the end, her worries were for naught as almost the instant they pulled clear of the docks, Rosamonde went a queer shade of green in the face and all thoughts of trysts were lost in a bout of seasickness_ _

__Two days into the journey, it was Captain Nico who brought their nightly portion of supper. “I just wanted to let you know that there’s a storm stirring up near Palma Flora. It’s drifting down the coast so, to spare you the rougher waters we’re going to take a bit of a wider skirting of the Twinward. It’ll add maybe half a day to our journey but to brave the storm would risk being even later to port.”_ _

__“Oh, we understand, Captain.” Juliana took the tray with a polite nod. “Do what you think is best.” Stepping back she persuaded Rosamonde to eat a bit, and this time she kept it down. As the days drifted on, Rosamonde’s illness slipped away. Once she was better, Juliana would sit and draw as Rosamonde read from her stories of romance and adventure._ _

__Soon the walls of the tiny room were dotted with beautiful illustrations of a lone castle on a cliffside, the moon heavy and yellow behind the highest tower, of fields of blooming wildflowers surrounding a couple in a passionate embrace beneath a cloud-kissed blue sky, an elven man at a wall of books, looking distraught and pained, a shadow of feminine curves silhouetted in the doorway._ _

__She handed over the one she had just finished. It showed a dark street in a large city, bathed in fog, distant figures lost in the swaths of gray. A dark shadow was cast on a wall of a building, the woman in the foreground glancing over her shoulder in obvious unease, a dagger being drawn from her belt._ _

__“Oh, this is so lovely, Juliana.” Rosamonde sighed as she looked over the latest drawing. “It’s a far more compelling picture than the cover it has now.” A little huff as she eyed the rather simple design of a golden stag head in silhouette under the script of the title ‘Hunter’s Mark’. “I mean, I’d certainly want to know ‘who is this woman? What menaces her? Who will save her?!” A giggle as she rested her wrist to her brow in a melodramatic manner._ _

__Juliana chuckled to herself and screwed the lid onto the pots of colored ink, carefully cleaning her brass nibs as she sat on the floor, legs tucked beneath her. “You are too kind, Mistress.” Juliana was just glad the reading aloud had kept her mistress from getting overcome by cabin fever._ _

__Rosamonde began to rise to pin it up with the others when the ship gave a swift lurch that sent her falling backward onto the bed. From above and around them, the quiet murmurs and dulled footsteps to which they had become accustomed gave way to a cacophony of running feet and shouting._ _

__“What is going on?” Rosamonde put her book beneath her pillow and looked around in rising panic._ _

__“I will find out.” Carefully opening their door and creeping out of the shadowed depths of the cargo hold, Juliana was nearly bowled over by men running past._ _

__An older man stopped and pushed two younger lads past him. “Fetch up arms to the deck, boys!” She recognized the figure as Mr. Mews, the Quartermaster.  
“What is happening?”_ _

__His eyes, sharp and hard, fixed on Juliana. “Stay below. Stay hidden.” He took a step away, then stopped and whipped back, pulling a dagger from his belt and pushing it into her hand. “Lock the door tight. If we fail…” His look conveying without words what he had given her the knife for. A nod and he raced off, the young men pushing past in the opposite direction, arms laden with swords and pikes._ _

__Shakily she’d made her way back to the room and locked the door more in habit than in obedience to Mr. Mews._ _

__“What?! What is going on, Juliana?”_ _

__“Pirates.” Her throat dry and stiff. “We’re being attacked.” Juliana had tried desperately to keep her head. If she panicked, so would Rosamonde. She could not lie, the sounds of battle were all around them._ _

__“If we’re taken… what will become of us?” Roseamonde’s voice barely a whisper._ _

__“I do not know.” Juliana could guess though. She imagined a world of horrors at the hand of rancid-blooded sea dogs. The dagger began to look more appealing._ _

__The noise became cacophonous, the explosion of cannon fire rocking the ship. Too soon, however, the noise stopped and a silence rose that was painful to their straining ears. For a long while, silence reigned, and then a voice rose to break the silence._ _

__“... On this ship somewhere is Miss Rosamonde Bouchard. I am willing to trade one life for every other life on board this ship. If you produce her I will depart, taking no further action against this ship or her crew. If you do not…” There was a terrible pause. “I will send my men to tear this ship apart until she is found. If I am forced to that, I will have no further need of you. I will leave my men to limp this ship to Darktow to be repurposed while you, her former crew, sink in chains to the depths of the Lucidian.”_ _

__A gasp from Rosamonde as she covered her mouth, eyes wide with panic. “Juliana…?” Her voice tremulous, tears welling up and spilling down over her cheeks._ _

__An idea flashed like lightning in Juliana’s brain. She didn’t pause to think. Springing up, her hands worked quickly to undo her simple grey dress and apron. “I will need one of your dresses. If he wants Rosamonde Bouchard, I will give him Rosamonde Bouchard.”_ _

__“But we look nothing alike!” Rosamonde kept her voice down, only sharpening the whisper._ _

__She was right of course, but that was of little importance. “He will believe me, or he will not. If he does, all is well. If he does not, I will have bought you a few minutes to make your way to a better hiding place.” She pulled the gown from the chest, tossed it over her head and wriggled into it._ _

__“Juliana…”_ _

__“There is no time!” She snapped and then softened her tone, giving Rosamonde’s hands a squeeze. “When I am gone, you lock this door. Open it for no one, not even Captain Nico until you can feel you are safe at port. Get to the airship and once you are in Shamal you must never venture out on the sea again.”_ _

__A little shaky breath pulled into her lungs and she threw the door open, lifted her skirts and petticoats and darted toward the stairs up to the deck before she could let sense take hold of her mind. If she thought about it, she would never be brave enough to do it._ _

__The sun abovedecks was blinding and she had to shield her eyes and squint for a long moment before she could take in the sea of prone sailors, the few rough  
characters of all sorts standing about, weapons in hand. Her eyes fell upon the captain of the ship, held nearly off his feet by his coat, the lapels in the grip of a larger, more imposing shape. Her heart was hammering, but she had only one job. To convince this blackguard that she was who he sought. _ _

__“Release him. I am here.”_ _


	7. Chapter 7

He was losing his patience. Davian had laid out his threat, and while he was not anxious to make good on it, he would if they pushed him. Most of those lying prone on the decks were, at best, confused by his request. It was obvious they knew nothing. It would be sensible that they’d not advertise the presence of such a delicate and valuable prize. A few though looked worried in a different way. A manner that showed they were not so ignorant. 

“Which of you is Captain?”

A portly and pale man stood, his chins jiggling a bit as he attempted to look brave before his men. “I-I am Captain Nica.”

Davian folded his arms behind his back and strolled in his direction. “Well then, Captain. T’would appear the crew’s fate is in your hands. Will you produce Miss Bouchard or am I to tear this ship apart and suss her out myself?” His voice an instrument of menace.

“I… I have no idea who you are talking about…” His voice faintly trembled.

“Oh, is that so. My mistake then. So very sorry for the confusion. I will just be on my way then.” The sarcasm dripped from each word. Taking a few steps toward the side, he turned and tossed back the edge of his coat to draw something from a pouch at his hip. “Do you know what this is?”

The captain eyed the item. “It-it’s an hourglass.”

“Yes… and no. It is not even a tenth of that. ” He set it on a nearby spool of rope. “Five minutes. That is how long you have until the sands drain. When that happens...”

Captain Nika gave a derisive huff of a laugh. “You’ll kill us all?” He was faking his bravery, but Davian had to give him points for not pissing himself. “We are dead no matter what I say.”

“Do you think to impugn my honor by calling me a liar?”

“You have no honor!” The captain, whether being brave or stupid, poked at Captain Harcourt’s chest with his index finger.

Snatching hold of the old man by his coat, he jerked him up off his feet to lower his own head until they were nose to nose. “Where... is she?!”

“Release him!” A feminine voice rang out. “I am here.”

Davian turned, a grin on his lips at how it had gone so smoothly. That smile faltered the moment he held her in his vision. He had, in his countless dreams of revenge, pictured her so differently. He twisted her into a viperous harridan. A slatternly woman drenched in jewels. Bound up in a fine gown that dipped scandalously low and bared her like meat in a butcher’s window. A creature of paint and powder more than a human being. She wore no paint, no jewels, only a face that was burned on his memory.

She was still pale as a peach, her honey-colored hair pulled up in a heavy twisting braid at the back of her head. Undone, it would likely reach her waist. Instantly he imagined it down, a curtain of gold over the naked curves of her body. No wonder she had been so popular with the men. A slow leer touched the corners of his lips as he shoved the captain away and stalked toward her.

He reminded himself of what she was. Envisioned her with Viscardi, that pox-ridden lecher and his ardor cooled greatly. Let her think, however, that her beauty swayed him. He waited for her to use it as a weapon. To bat her lashes and lick her lips and turn those warm amber bedroom eyes upon him.

Instead her eyes were on the captain, her features radiating concern and something else he could not name. When she turned her gaze to him, he could see she was surprised. Did she recognize him? No, it wasn’t recognition, but something that with a blink was gone. Her chin lifted, she was what he knew her to be. Cold and devoid of any human feeling. 

“Miss Bouchard, I presume?” He spoke, his tone betraying his ill temper. 

“Who else would I be?” She dropped her eyes to look him over hastily, judgmentally, then set her haunting eyes on his face again. “I heard your bellowing from my private quarters. I demand to know what reason you have to interrupt my journey.” 

“Oh, I have my reasons, be assured of that. Your future husband will be most eager to pay the ransom I ask, I’m sure. Do not worry, Miss Bouchard. You are nothing to me but a payday.” 

“You underestimate my beloved. When he hears of this,” she gave a scornful breath of humorless laughter. “He will see you hung.” 

He leaned down, noting how she drew back from him as if she might catch something. “My lady…” his voice a warm purr of threat and seduction. “You will find I am hung well enough already.” 

He heard a gasp and a glance showed she was averting her eyes, even blushing. What a fine little actress she was. He could imagine Viscardi found her demure damsel routine quite diverting. Were he not a wiser man he might actually think she _was_ an innocent. She smelled as she had the last time she was in his arms. Sweet but not cloying. The dress she wore was half undone and he ached to finish the job. 

“Doubtful.” Putting her most chilly inflection on the word. “To the point at hand. Since I doubt you are smart enough to be concerned with your own inevitable fate…”

He cut off her chatter the moment he began plucking pins from her twisted braid. “What do you think you are doing?” She snapped. 

“And you called _me_ stupid.” he smirked as he at last had untwisted it, the thick weight pulled across her shoulder to drape down across her breast. 

She seemed to be tense. No doubt doing all she could to avoid slapping him outright and he was enjoying seeing how far she’d allow him to go before she snapped. Her hands were in fists at her side, her jaw muscle flicking under her skin. 

“As I was saying, I could hardly avoid hearing you from below. You will let these sailors go, unharmed if I agree to go with you?”

“Agree to go with me?” He barked in mirth as he stood and walked around to face her again. “Did you hear her? _If I agree to go with you_” He mocked her words and tone with a flutter of lashes, fingertips settling on his bare breastbone. 

The members of his crew still aboard broke in rough and raucous laughter. Though he had laughed along there was no humor in his eyes. “My fine lady, you mistake your place in this. If I were to choose to burn this ship to nothing but ash upon the waves, what will you do about it, hmm?” 

He took hold of her chin between his thumb and the side of his index finger and forced her to look up at him. “I am not one of your simpering lovers, throwing themselves at your feet, twisting themselves wrong side out for your attention and affection. I will do whatever I please.” 

His hand turned and rested against her jaw, thumb at the edge of her lower lip. The calloused pad slid almost tenderly across her mouth, his eyes pinned on hers. He willed her to scream. To curse him. To beg, but she did none of those, merely looking up at him as she had that long-ago night when he had faltered and let her illusions entrap him. Damn her! He had to look away, to break her spell on him. He steeled himself and stood tall as he glowered down at her. “Walk… or be carried.” 

She seemed surprised perhaps. He saw that hardness return, no doubt now assured her feigned delicacy would never convince him. “Touch me again and I will assure you are cut into pieces so small a gnat would not choke upon them.” her threat as cold as the waters of the North. “At least, those parts which are not already that tiny.” 

How he hated her. She and Viscardi were far too well suited. Devils both. Still, even with that bitter loathing eating at his brain there was desire. He wanted her despite everything. He’d craved her in the darkest hours of his private dreams where she haunted like a specter, never real, never truly there. He snapped out now, grabbing her waist, feeling the flesh beneath his palms. “Carried it is.” 

She cried out in surprise and alarm, wriggling to get down but he simply wrapped his arm around her thighs, wholly unperturbed by her thrashing. 

“Thulgris, see to things.” He stepped up onto one of the boarding planks and she went still, no doubt fearing that any excess movement might make them both tip over the edge and tumble down into the sea far below. She could have fought him like a wildcat if she had wanted, it would not have sent him over. His sea legs were far too adept for that.

Dropping down onto the deck of The Onyx, he set her down, turning her so she could witness what happened next. Slowly, the planks that laid between the ships one by one were removed. He noted Wolna, who had tended to the wounded, and Thulgris, boarding last. The sails given wind, the Onyx pulled away into the sea and left the wounded Arethuse behind. 

Her body against his skin was warming him in a way that was as sickening as it was sensual. His hands slid down the arms he’d been so firmly holding against her to keep her from doing something stupid like trying to leap overboard. 

“You see. I am a man of my word. I have taken only what I required.” He dampened his lips, gone dry despite his wishes otherwise. Perhaps honey was a better lure than vinegar.

She pulled away and shook her head, unable to even look at him so disgusted was she. “Please, leave me alone.”

That she would crawl and mewl and spread her legs for a man like Viscardi and yet view _him_ as beneath her was galling. He jerked his hands away as if she had sprouted venomous spines like an anemone. “Annyss!” 

Within a few seconds, a squat figure was at his side. Davian looked down to see a clean-shaven dwarven woman with close-cropped brown hair and multiple earrings running up the outer edges of both ears. 

“Lock her away somewhere safe. No one is to speak to her, touch her, feed her, or in any way have contact.” Leaning close to assure his words poured direct into his now prisoner’s ear, his lips tight as was his lowered voice. “Left alone, as you bid, my fine lady.” 

He stepped back and turned, his arm lifted, index finger up and circled in the air, the signal for all hands to get back to work. “Everyone back to your posts! Set sail for Stilben!”

* * * *

The dwarf grabbed her arm and she resisted only long enough to watch a few moments more, the crew of the Arethuse now standing, moving to clear the fallen mast. Her mistress was safe. She had done that final service. To ensure it stuck, however, she needed to keep these fools believing they had snatched a prize worth having.

“Let me go this instant!” She had bitten out as she pulled at the iron fingers that held her tight. The dwarf did not relent, not allowing a single step to be taken except in whatever direction her fate lay in. Down, down into the dark belly of the ship she was accosted by the smell of the acrid gun deck. Her jailer took her further below, a sharp turn and a shove tossed her into a dark and windowless space, the door slammed and all light was extinguished. 

She could reach out and touch the walls in all directions without taking a step. It was, at best, a glorified closet. Feeling her way from corner to corner, her foot struck something. An empty bucket. She shuddered,not wishing to contemplate its reason for being here. She had nothing now to do but wait. The longer they thought they held Rosamonde Bouchard, the closer her mistress would be to getting to Port Damali, to boarding the airship and by then she would be safely out of the reach of such low pirates. 

In the quiet she began to pick out sounds. She could hear the water lapping at the wood, a touch to the far wall found that the lower third was seeping, brackish water beading there between the boards then dripping down to leave the floor damp where it met the wall. That explained the slightly moldy, musty smell. The ship lurched and she braced herself from falling forward, the rough walls leaving more than one splinter in her palms. 

Hissing in pain and frustration, aware that they were now turned so the wind would put distance between them and the Arethuse, she could at least take comfort in that. Hours passed. Her standing in the center of the room, arms crossed, became abbreviated pacing. Two steps one way, two in the other, back and forth, the floor growing more damp under her bare soles until each step was slightly spongy. Too weary to continue, she gave up and sank down, a slight wince at how her mistress’s dress was being ruined. 

Shivering with the cold that came with the soaking of the gown beneath her, she heard voices rise outside the door.

“Oh, come on, Annyss… just let us have a peek.” A wheedling tone that sounded young. “We were tending the canons when he brought her aboard.” 

“Piss off, Eustace.” A voice that, while feminine, held only iron in it. “Get your scrawny ass back to work. Captain’s orders say that so far as it matters, I’m guarding an empty closet.”

It grew quiet and she attempted to engage the dwarven woman in conversation for a while to no avail. She pressed near the door but heard only the occasional grate of a chair moving or footsteps pacing. She curled up in the corner and waited. There was nothing else to do. She had no measure of time, drifting in and out of sleep, her skin chilled and her dress heavy as she pushed to stand, pacing and scuffing at her arms to drive warmth into them. 

For too long there was no sound but the creak of the ship rocking and those few noises of her guard’s presence. Then, as she sat half dozing, thinking of better times, a new sound entered into the quiet. A metallic squeaking sound, the slow creak of a twisting screw. She sat bolt upright as a sliver of light appeared, a chunk of the door’s bottom came away, no wider than her fist. A tin cup of water was pushed in. 

“I’m counting to ten and taking the cup back. One… two… three…” 

She dove for it, finding it to be on a thin chain as she lifted it to her lips, gulping down the tepid but tasty water. She finished just as the voice reached nine and set it down, the cup shooting out when the chain was pulled and the board quickly slammed back into place. 

“Thank you.” She called, but as ever, got no response. Thirst eased, she did her best to find comfort, lulled by the ship’s motion, hovering in that place where dream and memory overlapped. She remembered how bright it had been on the deck when she’d stepped out. How it had stung her eyes and how the first thing they had seen had been him, holding up poor Captain Nico. 

She’d felt her throat closing and shoved the required words out before it could. He’d wheeled round on her, staring. His dark brows betraying his unpleasant temperament as they slashed over eyes as dark and sharp as volcanic rock. Lined heavily with black beneath them, it only accented the intensity of his gaze. His nose, full and straight, his mouth perhaps a bit too feminine in shaping, but not the way he held it, straight and unamused. 

He was taller even than she’d surmised from the distance. Younger than her mind had painted him as well. She could not deny he was handsome but no matter how well-formed as he was she could not allow her mind to label him ‘attractive’. Nothing there attracted, but repelled. He radiated violence and anger like the sun gave off heat. Juliana braced herself to be attacked but he stopped short and just stared at her for several seconds. 

_He knows…_ her mind screamed. _He knows you’re a fraud._. She had to fight to keep from fidgeting under his gaze as he looked her over like a cat watching a creeping mouse. He asked directly, and she had to risk everything to ensure he believed it. She answered, adopting the manner and chilled tone of a friend of her mistress, a high born elven woman who thought herself to be above every being in the world.

It seemed to work. He asked over Master il Azim. Spoke of ransom. She doubted this man would see a single silver. It was possible, of course, that her mistress might persuade her husband to pay something to retrieve her, but it would only be a pittance, and the fact he did not hold Rosamonde Bouchard would no doubt anger him so that he’d think only of punishing her for her deception. She tried not to think about the captain’s face, rage-filled and hard. Her brain volunteered a hundred horrible things to punish her for her deceit. Lashes and keelhauling and hanging. Terrible violations that would make death something begged for rather than feared. 

“... lling you to stand aside!” 

A loud voice brought her back to full consciousness. 

“I need to see her for myself.” The voice was male, sharp and commanding, but it did not seem like the captain’s. His was steel wound in honey-wax. This was abrasive and cold. 

“And I told you, I open this door for Captain Harcourt and nobody else.” The gruff dwarf retorted. 

“Miss Bouchard!” the man spoke louder. “Are you well?”

She blinked, swallowing hard. How to reply? “Um… no. I am the farthest thing from it! I demand you let me out of here this instant!” 

A heavy thud struck the door and she jumped back. “No talking!” The voice was the female. “And there will be no opening the door. There’s nothing in there until the captain says there is. Don’t come snooping down here again, Mr. Petrick. There ain’t no need for you to be nosing around an empty room.” The tone was heavy with threat and the sureness that it could be backed up. 

The quiet rose again, almost deafening now. Her hours were a constant twisting cycle of shivering, drowsing, dreaming and long hours of the sea lapping on the other side of the wall. Time as a concept twisted, marked only by the occasional ten count and cup of water. 

It might have been a week for all she knew when a grating sound, the noise of the heavy wooden plank being lifted away from the door had her scampering backward into the wet wall, fearing they’d figured it out. That they were coming to make her pay for her lies. Her hand covered her eyes when the lantern light shone in. 

“Up. Captain demands your presence.”


	8. Chapter 8

Davian gripped the rail, gazing out over the dark sea. He’d entrusted her to Anyss, for he knew the dwarf would keep her safe. His closest crewmen were trustworthy, but there were newer men he could not swear to. Give her even a chance and no doubt she’d use her wiles to turn them on him. 

For two days he had imagined her, shut up in Anyss’ quarters, amused by the image of the taciturn dwarf and the high-born whore forced to share a room. He was far less amused when he discovered the truth. It was his own fault for not specifying. She, Anyss that is, had heard him rail against Rosalinde Bouchard so many times she’d assumed that the worst possible accommodations were what he’d have wanted. Shutting her away in a room determined to be too inhospitable for storing contraband, much less a person. 

He’d opened the door to find Rosamonde sleeping, She was pale, unhealthily so. Her hair was a mess and her dress was ruined. She whimpered faintly in her sleep and as he had in that garish house so long ago he felt a pang of sympathy, wanting to lift her up, to feel her in his arms again, this time to shelter her from the pain he had been the cause of.

No. He could not let himself falter now. Not when he was so close. He could not debate that even curled up in a damp corner she was beautiful. But Navia had been beautiful too. Now her beauty had been nearly pushed from the memory by the last time he’d seen it, her face a mass of blood and bruises courtesy of Rhys Viscardi. 

He had closed the door and gave a sharp motion for Anyss to follow him up onto the deck. He bit back the vehement fury coursing through him. He knew he was angry at himself. For not being clear, for letting himself feel a twinge of pity. In a clipped tone, he directed her to get the girl cleaned up and brought to his cabin, underlined with his former order that no one should see, then sent her off, stalking to his cabin to lie in wait. 

Pacing, his fists clenched and opened. He had to force himself to burn away his qualms and the hunger he felt when he looked at her. He shook his head to clear away the lingering threads of remembering her eyes and how they seemed too warm and gentle to be so close a neighbor to a mouth that spit such ice. 

Damn her! He stalked to his cabinet and pulled free the bottle of cheap whiskey and took a deep pull at the bottle. She was not some angel. No innocent crushed beneath the wheels of something she had no hand in. No, she was a spoiled, lascivious, succubus using some sort of hell-spawned magics on him. No woman would agree to be the wife of Rhys Viscardi unless she was somehow his equal in cruelty and heartlessness. 

Had she not tried to blind him, then called Viscardi’s men to cut him down? He imagined her again, playing the part of the wounded dove until their backs were turned and she could laugh at how foolish he was. How weak. Did she know what they had done to him? As the liquor burned into his bloodstream he indulged in knowing she had. 

Imagining himself, unconscious, drug to the house where she sneered and then smiled. He heard her icy tone, the razor’s edge to her insults, the purr of sensuality as she ran her fingers over the guard’s chest, suggesting there was a better plan than to turn him over to her beloved Rhys. This guard, her lover and one of many no doubt, bent to her will and drug his captive to the slavers himself. 

No doubt he’d come scampering back like some loyal dog to beg his reward soon after. He was sickened by his imagination. Her callous disregard for all propriety. A harlot who would use whatever man was nearest, an infection that spread by touch, eating away the brain until you were a puppet to her machinations. 

Footsteps. They were coming. 

Securely divested of any feeling of gentle-hearted empathy he ducked away behind a tri-fold screen that created a hiding space just to the left of the door. It provided a place where he could linger and watch those who were shown to his cabin. Potential clients, new crewman, other captains, he would get the measure of their true selves before they knew he was there. He knew he was right about her. Nothing he could see would change that.

* * * *

“Come with me.” The lady dwarf gave a flick of her head and Juliana made her body obey, rising to follow. She burned to ask questions but swallowed them. This woman had not spoken to her in who knew how long. She wasn’t likely to start now.

“You’ve got an audience with the captain.” The dwarf lead her up a deck, down a short way and threw open a door. Within was a brass tub with steaming water, a stool with folded towels and a bar of soap. She motioned to the tub. “Wash.” She stepped out, closing and locking the door behind her.

Juliana obeyed. Naked and sinking into the water she felt guilty. Should she ought to have fought? Swore and screamed and demanded better accomidation? A fine born lady should have done those things. Maybe it was her training that had made her so quick to capitulate. No, the truth was more simple and selfish. The hot water felt good. The chance to wash away the sea and the sweat and the faint smoked fish smell? She didn’t want to squander it. 

As a Conservatory girl she had always lived in a luxurious world. Her mistress had been good to her. Allowed her comforts and ease. Scrubbing harder she pushed back the tears of self-pity. She would feel much more herself when she was clean. She was not sure how long it had been, but surely it had been long enough that her mistress was safe. She had to be. This could not be for nothing.

Hurrying out of the tub, each step a torment, but she hadn’t the time to wince over splinters. She would tell him the truth, and face her death bravely. That by now, his prey had reached Port Damali and was safely aboard an airship, well beyond his reach. A small feeling of triumph filled her as she reached up and pulled the provided clothing from the hook. 

The dress was brutally plain and at least two sizes too large. Beneath the towel was a comb, which she was grateful for. She raked through the tangles, smoothing the strands into a tight braid. Clean, groomed, she was prepared to face the enemy and frankly bask in that one moment when he knew he’d been cheated. It would be the only thing she could take joy in for whatever time remained in her life. She’d cherish it. 

Rapping softly on the locked door, she heard the scrape of the iron key and the dwarf appeared on the other side. She looked her up and down, then nodded. “It’ll have ta do.” She tossed her a heavy cloak. “Put it on.” Waiting as Juliana slid it over her shoulders and pulled the hood up to hide her features. “Come along. Cap’n said nobody was to look at ya. You’re keepin’ people from their work.” 

She stomped off and Juliana followed, now noticing what she’d missed on their trip to the washing room. The ship seemed deserted. Emerging up onto the deck there was not another living thing in sight. Only the sails rippling and the eerie whine of the rigging. It was unnerving. She was pulled to the side where a large door was pulled open and she was shoved inside, the loaned cloak pulled away as she was sent stumbling a few steps as it was shut tight at her back. 

She turned in a quick circle, seeing no one. The second perusal was slower, but she seemed to be utterly alone. Juliana was unfamiliar with ships but supposed this must be his private quarters. They were far more office than anything else, with racks of books behind mesh screens built into the walls flanking the wide window that looked out onto the sea as it spread out behind them. 

Lanterns illuminated the large desk that took up a good portion of the thick, if a bit threadbare, rug in the center of the room. Her steps muffled by the rug as she circled the desk on her way to the window. It was littered with maps and charts, a worn brass sextant, a heavy letter opener, and a ruler. 

There was a smell in the room she could not place, but it tickled of familiarity. Notes of wood and sea air, of tobacco and spices and something else, something warm and comforting. A little faint gasp as the unknown in the smell was now clear. Leather. Why was that scent so familiar? Her hand rose to her mouth as she realized it smelled like he did. Unwillingly she was back to that moment on the deck of the ship where he’d held her against his chest, his breath warm on her neck. Shuddering, she told herself her heart was racing in fear and no other reason.

For several seconds she watched the foam-capped waves marking the ship’s movement through the water, her thoughts drifting toward just breaking the glass and jumping. She would die, but she’d die as Rosamonde and ensure he wouldn’t go looking for her mistress. A creak brought her head to whip around, her heart in her throat. There was no one there. 

Swallowing hard she stepped away from the window, a creeping sensation crawling down her spine. Off to the side of the room sat a fine chair of worn brocade and a square tufted footrest, both bolted to the floor. The wall beside them was likewise lined in shelves and cubbyholes, each filled with rolled parchments or worn leather journals. 

The shelves and nooks became drawers that rose to the ceiling, framing a curtained window. Wondering why it would be covered when the back wall was left bare, she pulled the curtain aside and discovered it was actually a bed built into the framing of the drawers. 

The alcove held what seemed a fine mattress and soft down-stuffed pillows and warm woolen blankets. It was a cozy nook and her chilled, aching body realized how long it had been since she’d been able to even stretch out, much less enjoy a pillow. She reached out to brush her fingertips along the mattress with a small sigh. 

“Of course you’d be waiting at the bed.”

The sound of his voice made her jump and turn around. She had not heard the door, nor was he near it. He was somehow in the middle of the room like he just appeared there. 

“I…” She swallowed softly and edged away from it a bit. She bit back the apology already on her tongue as she realized she was supposed to be Rosamonde. Obviously he had never met her so that Juliana was as different from her mistress in looks as she was in voice didn’t matter. 

“Compared to the splinter infested closet you’ve kept me in, this seemed marginally less deplorable.” Her voice again taking that haughty and dismissive note of the elven friend of her mistress. “But sadly there is proof of an infestation.” Her eyes shifting toward him as she derisively plucked at the edge of a blanket, lifting it and letting it fall. “Some sort of vermin has made a nest here.” 

“Splinters? I would have thought you’d not mind a few pricks.” he crossed his arms and scrutinized her with a leer. 

She frowned, though inwardly she knew that if she were truly Rosamonde, he wouldn’t be wrong.

“Nothing to say to that? No stings left, little wasp?” He looked her over again and she stopped herself from rising to his baiting. He turned then and moved to the wall beside the screen and lifted a bottle, pouring a cup of some brown liquor and downing it, refilling, and then draining it again by half before he turned back upon her. 

“You don’t remember me, do you?” He advanced and she retreated, her back striking the mesh over the bookcases as he stopped and set his glass on the corner of the desk. 

“I do not bother to pay heed to those so much lower than I.” It made her stomach turn to act so cruel when Rosamonde, though spoiled utterly and far too free with her affections, was generally sweet and harmless. 

“No.” He glowered and gestured to his face. “You only maim them with inkwells.”

She gasped as it came back to her.

He had been bearded then, ragged and thinner, and she was mildly ashamed to consider if she might not have been so quick to throw it if looked as he did now. 

“You broke into the house. I simply defended myself.” She blinked at him, the faint flaw in his left eyebrow now explained. “And you’re hardly maimed.” She scoffed lightly. “You’re far more handsome now in fact.” She blushed, having not meant to say that. 

“You nearly took my eye out!” He barked, and though she was frightened, a part of her was glad he’d missed her complementary slip of the tongue. 

“It was not my intent to harm you.” She snapped back, though it betrayed her own voice. “I am sorry you were hurt but you frightened me!” 

In an instant he was there, his hand around her throat, driving her to her toes, her head pressed back lightly against the mesh of the screen. His rough fingers didn’t dig, his calloused palm did not crush. He growled through his teeth as he pressed himself against her. His face was too close, his breath tainted with the sting of alcohol. 

She knew he was going to snap her neck and she could not stem the tears that welled up and overran to streak down her cheeks. Let it be swift she prayed as she closed her eyes. The gods seemed deaf to her pleas as time seemed to stretch out for what seemed an hour before, to her shock and chagrin, he kissed her.

* * * *

He could feel her pulse rushing swiftly under his fingertips. Her eyes were luminous. Wet with tears that overran, glittered in her lashes and trickled down her cheek to drip hotly on his wrist. Her mouth had tempted, and he’d succumbed, bowing his head to cover her lips with his, furious with himself for his lack of control, sickened that he was considering laying with a whore who had borne Viscardi’s weight on her belly.

He should be disgusted by her, but every thought but having her had fled him. He broke the kiss, his lips only an inch from hers as his hand left her throat and slid down across her breast, squeezing slowly, the fullness filling his palm so perfectly. “Why?” He groaned as he fell to her lips again like a drunkard to the bottle. “Why not just keep you?” He was drowning in the taste of her, sinking into a dark place as he drug hungered pecks across her mouth and chin. “You make such a lovely whore.”

A sudden sharp pain struck him in the thigh, quite close to his waking arousal. It was enough to make him jerk back.

Her lips red and swollen, her eyes, so fearful before were now hard as broken glass. He hardly registered the slap until the sound cracked in his ear. His senses slowed by the drink and the shock, he could only blink dully as she pulled free of his grip and ran, putting herself on the other side of the desk, the dull but still pointed letter open now in her hand.

“I am not your whore!”

“No,” he sneered as he ran his fingers over the hot echo of her palm on his jawline. “You’re his.” He gave a huff of derisive laughter. “Or you were. I was only wondering why he’d just throw you away. I mean, certainly, he cannot have a slut for a wife, but he could keep you for something less matrimonial and more enjoyable I’d thought. Now I see the real reason, you virulent shrew.”

He craved her fight, her derision, her hatred. Instead, she just blinked dully in confusion. “Wait, what?”

“Do you not understand?” He laughed softly and moved again, watching her circle to keep the desk between them. “It was your intended who has paid me to kidnap you.”

“Why would he hire you to kidnap her just to ransom her back?” The air of chill was gone, and her voice was softer, accented differently. 

“Because he intends to hear of your terrible fate, sold into slavery to some dockside brothel. Your father can’t make him marry you after you’ve been used by dozens… no, hundreds of sailors.”

She gave a sharp bark of laughter. A single ‘ha!’ of wild panic. “Oh, your master is going to be very disappointed with you.”

“He is not my master!” He lurched forward, smacking both palms onto the top of the table. She brandished the blade, but did not strike as he stood up, pulling calming breaths in and making himself calm down. “Fear not, my dear, I have no intention of marring the merchandise before the sale. We will be in Stilben within the week.”

Her voice was calm. Sad. Thick with disappointment. “You’ve taken the wrong woman.”

He gave her a lascivious grin. The heat of the slap was fading, but the warmth of the whisky was rising. “Oh, you’re the right woman alright. Remember, we’ve met before. You were nearly naked in Viscardi’s little love nest.” he could still taste her on his lips. The flash of her eyes, the thrill of the fight, he wanted her more now than ever. 

“Can you not just be friendly? You will have a soft bed and fine food…” Her oversized dress had shifted so the neckline that revealed no more than her collarbone was now leaving one shoulder bare. “...and not to sound like a braggart but I am told I am a very fine lover.” She had dropped the airy elvish accent long ago but it had only just sunk into his mind. “What do you mean I’ve taken the wrong woman?” He regretted that whisky now. 

She went ashen, her eyes wide and her head shook. “It was for nothing.” Her hand rose as it had the first night he’d seen her, panic branded on every feature as she dropped the letter opener and covered her mouth with both hands as she backed away. 

The display shocked him. He expected histrionics, seduction, perhaps a bit of fear but this was … pitiful. He circled the desk and picked up the letter opener, tossing it back on the desk as he watched her eyes, glinting with rising tears, shifting back and forth as if searching for some answer in the ether before they fixed back upon him and she dropped her hands. 

“I cannot ask forgiveness for deceiving you. I am not sorry.” She lifted her chin. “I hoped to save her.”

“You are saying you are _not_ Rosamonde Bouchard?” He huffed softly. “You forget, Pet. We’ve already met before.” 

She stood straight, her chin lifted, her tear-streaked face placid. “I am Juliana, property of Rosamond Bouchard of Nicodranas.” Her eyes burned through him. “Who twice you have mistaken for her mistress.” 

Suddenly he felt as if he’d stepped off a cliff. Everything rushed up at him and he had to sit down. He had the wrong woman? How? She had been in the house! But as a servant it wasn’t unexpected she’d be there. He thought she didn’t know him on the Arethuse, but … he looked up at her, his ire rising. “You said you were Rosamonde!”

“No.” She shook her head. “You asked if I was and I said ‘Who else would I be?’” She looked only fractionally guilty over the near-lie. “My mistress was endangered. To make you leave, you had to believe you had her. I… I imagined you would send your ransom letter to her betrothed and he would laugh because by that time she would have arrived safely.” She frowned a bit. “If what you have said is true, were I she, I would be better off in Stilben than with that duplicitous, ill-born … fourflusher!” 

No. He hadn’t been so stupid. She couldn’t be a slave. She didn’t act like one. Talk like one. She was too elegant. Too well-spoken. His drink-soaked brain began to turn. This was a trick. Trying to make him feel sorry for her. She would feign this innocent persona and with it twist him up until he could not imagine throwing so delicate a dove to the ravaging wolves. Oh, she was good.

He laughed under his breath, a hand raised to shake a finger at her. “Oh, you almost had me. I am not so stupid as you’d like.” He rose and circled the desk, moving toward the door. “Anyss!” He barked and almost instantly the dwarf’s small frame was seen within the partially open door. 

“Aye Captain?”

“Would you fetch Mr. Petrick for me please?” 

“Of course, Captain.” 

He returned to his chair at the desk, confident as he retook his seat. 

_Petrick_. She recalled the name from the other side of the door. He had seemed concerned for her heath. Perhaps he would prove an ally. That hope died the instant he stepped inside.


	9. Chapter 9

At last! Ziom Petrick rose from the claustrophobic accommodations he’d been forced into. It had been worse when Stuvako was here, but the idiot had run up onto the deck during the attack and somehow got himself run through and knocked overboard. The extra space was nice, but it left him to attend to selling off the Bouchard wench himself. 

That was, if they’d let him see her. Signor Viscardi was getting very upset. He, of course, had no intention of speaking to the father. He’d made his bargain months ago. He simply wished to see the bitch punished for turning him down. It was petty, but then it was the smallest thorns that seemed to sting the worst. Once she was turned over to them, the men waiting in Stilben would overtake the ship, kill the crew and the Onyx, as well as the platinum, would be safely bound for Te’epala. 

The captain’s door was opened by the surly little dwarven bitch who’d kept him from personal inspection in the hold. Rosamond Bouchard had never been his particular cup of tea, but it would have pleased him greatly to see the high-born slut suffering. Now he’d have his chance. 

“Captain.” He smiled a greasy smile as he gave a bow of his head. “You sent for me?”

“I have been rather misled. I was under the impression our prisoner was being kept in a far more suitable manner than it turns out she was. I wanted to give her a bit of time to acclimate to her new lot before I felt secure letting her out of the room. Now, I would ask, have I done as I promised? There has been some confusion as to whether I was successful in my task.” 

There was something canny in the captain’s eyes, a dare of sorts, though they were not pinned on him. Petrick turned and in an instant, felt the base of his stomach drop. He had to think quickly. Ryhs would be livid. That his revenge was thwarted would no doubt be laid directly at Petrick’s feet. He hadn’t known! The fool had kept her hidden for two days and it was far too late to turn about now. 

He saw the same look of disdainful disgust in her eyes she had worn each time they fell upon him. What right had she to look down on _him_? She was a slave and yet she behaved as if she were her mistress’s equal. Better than. Where her mistress was flirty and free with her smiles, this one gave nothing but ice and derision. 

If he spoke her true status, no doubt she would suffer but there would be no chance to make it right. The harlot was fleeing back to Marquet and … as he thought on it, the chances of Rhys finding out were high, but it would take a bit of time. Time enough to return to Te’epala, turn over the ship and the coin, the bill of sale for one Rosamonde Bouchard, and then, in a day or so, he could take all he could and flee. Change his name, move inland to Tal’Dorei and live a long, rich life of leisure.

“It is good to see you are well.” Petrick feigned concern. “Have you been mistreated?” 

She lifted her chin if only to look down her nose at him. “Nothing I cannot bear.” She clasped her hands before her waist and he saw the distress. “Tell the Captain he has failed.” Her lip twitched in a faint disdainful sneer. “It is alright. He already knows.” 

Her tone of command grated him. She ought to be begging. Those eyes should be rife with pleas silently praying, promising him anything if he’d step up and spare her what her mistress’s fate was to be. “Failed?” He said softly. “Indeed.” 

He turned to regard the captain, only sorry he could not see her face as he spoke. “Look at her. Her hands are raw and red, her feet as well. You have, I am supposing, not fed nor cared for her in any way.” He huffed. “What sort of effect do you imagine that will have on the price? Just because you’re not pocketing the profits yourself, Harcourt, does not mean you can just destroy the property. “ 

He turned and bowed his head. “My dear Miss Bouchard, I am gravely wounded on your behalf.” He lifted his eyes, seeing her hatred and distress burning in those tiger-gold eyes. “If you cannot keep her in good condition, I will happily tend to her myself.” Speaking to the captain though his gaze did not waver. 

“Touch me, you pestilent tick…” She curled her lip, her voice a low growl. “And I will claw your face from your skull. “ 

“As I said.” The captain’s voice rose and the scrape of a chair marked that he had done likewise. “I was misinformed as to how she was being secured. I have rectified it. You’ve seen she is alive and well, and you’ve my word she will be the very picture of health when we reach our destination.” 

He could argue, but Harcourt had a crew of loyal sailors and he had, at the present time, nothing. It was enough that he knew she was here. Perhaps he’d even buy her for himself. Ensure she got a good welcome into her new life before he sailed for home. “As you say, Harcourt. I will hold you to your word.” He gave a nod and turned, walking out the door, allowing his mind to turn on the carnal scenarios he was weaving.

* * * *

“There. You see, you thought you could ensnare me with your feigned innocence and your tall tales? You have been made, Miss Bouchard. There is no reason for you to deny it now.”

“He is a liar.” 

“He has no reason to lie.” Davian moved around the desk. “He has, in fact, every reason _not_ to. I have been hired to procure you. Your intended sent him to assure you were escorted to Stilben safe and sound. Do you think he’d risk his employer’s wrath by delivering the wrong woman?”

“Wait.” She took a sharp breath and blinked at him. “You are working for Signore Viscardi?!” She spoke to herself, barely audible. “Oh, but..” She looked up, hopefulness mingled in the panic. “If that is so then …” She gave a strangled laugh of hysterics. “All is well!” She clasped her hands before her mouth, a soft sigh of ease before she lowered them. “Believe what you will, Captain Harcourt. I will argue no more.”

Damned mercurial wench! What would she not argue? Her name? That was an obvious point but if he again sought to persuade her to his bed would she argue then? Was that her way of saying she would bend to his will and the promise of a soft bed and a better way to spend her journey than soaking in brine and shards of wood? He could not say and her damned face showed nothing! 

“Anyss… have Wolna see to her.” he waved them off, moving to his desk to sink down and rest his head in his hands. She vexed him so! He had seen the way Petrick was looking at her, but more the way she looked at him. There was a true hatred there. Despite all her venom in his direction, he had never seen such a look on her face when she regarded him. There was coldness and haughty dislike, certainly, but to see her look as though she would happily have run Petrick through without blinking… it disturbed him. He could not say why. 

Was that why he’d felt the need to step up to her defense? Did he believe Petrick had somehow earned that look and low growl whose words he’d missed but whose meaning was nothing if not blatant. Petrick had looked at her with undisguised leering. When he had said ‘tend to her myself’ Davian had known he meant the worst of violations. Was it mere jealousy that he wanted her for his own pleasures? It sickened him to consider that even as he saw her true viperous face he wanted her more than his next breath. 

And her lie? So easily debunked. Yet… there were so many things that made him still wish to believe it. Her voice, her slips of tongue saying ‘she’ when she ought to say ‘I’. She could not be a slave. He’d known slaves. Seen them firsthand and they did not have hands like satin or tongues of silver. No, she was just a very good actress. 

He would try to sleep. Let slumber and time serve to sober him up and see if he could detangle the twisted thoughts come morning. He rose and took one glance at his bed, slightly in disarray. _”Some sort of vermin has made a nest here.”_ He could see her face of disdain, her aloof disparagement. He pressed his hand to his head, shaking it. He couldn’t bring himself to fall into it now. She had made it unclean, not him. That he looked at her there and saw her in his bed, in his arms, recalled with clarity the feel and taste of her mouth, her body under his hands. 

“Stop it!” He bit out the words, pushing himself to recall she was a deceitful creature, cruel and bitter. She’d seen his weakness and thought to exploit it. He had to buck up against the influence. No matter how she tried to twist him up, he would keep clear of her talons. 

To keep his mind clear, he would only concentrate on her insults and her snide, superior tone. The low, lurid part of his mind planted the seeds of a hundred fantasies, but he’d tear them from the ground before they could take root. He had to be strong. He would burn out any trace of weakness. 

He stalked to the bolted chair and ottoman, dropping down and crossing his arms, his legs stretched out before him and willed himself to sleep. It took far too long and when it came, it was broken by disturbing dreams that mingled the painful past with the lurid fantasies of the here and now. 

A knock roused him instantly, his hand dropped to his waist for a weapon he didn’t have, panic gnawing at his consciousness. Again, the rap of knuckles and he swallowed, pushing his hands back across his hair as he glared toward the door. “Enter!” 

He was expecting Thulgris, his second-in-command, but it was a shorter and more stout frame that filled the doorway. 

“Is this a bad time, Captain?” The man closed the door behind himself. Wolna was shorter than Davian by a foot, his hair and beard bright snowy white though he was only barely into his middle years. Braids ran from his near cyanotic blue face backward across his scalp in even rows that met at the nape of his neck where they were bound in a leather thong. The multitude adorned with beads and baubles that clicked almost musically with each movement he made. A gentle percussion to the soft oceanic melody that was his voice. 

“No, Wolna. It is fine. Is there some trouble?” He rose and walked to the water barrel to dipper out something to wash away the foul remnants of his night of drink. 

“I did as you asked, Sir. I have seen to your guest.” A trickle ran along Wolna’s temple and he pulled a rag from his belt to dab at his dewy brow. “I am quite surprised she was able to stand, much less be marched to your quarters to face her kidnapper.” 

“And?” He told himself the stab of anger was directed at Wolna for his interference, not his own guilt.

“Her feet were quite raw and chafed. I removed several splinters from them, as well as the palms of her hands and the backs of her legs. She is not accustomed to such accommodations as you so graciously allowed her. She’ll toughen up, I’m sure.” The sarcasm dripped from each word. “It is good, however, you had me see to her. She is, after all, valuable property Captain. If she gets sick or loses a foot to infection, she’ll bring a sad price indeed. “

The coldbloodedness of the sudden turn of the conversation appealed to that part of him that had clung to his hatred, his vengeance for so long. He nodded, taking the easy and familiar path, ignoring thoughts of sympathy or guilt. “The room was not my choice. It is, however, just as you said. Damaged goods will not make a good profit.” Forcing coldness into his tone. “Don’t paint her as being opposed to being enslaved. She was more than ready to call herself property last night. Begged that I believe she was not Rosamonde, but her servant.” Infusing his words with a note of scorn to cover the shame that he’d actually believed her for a moment.

Wolna gave a faintly shocked chuckle. “What sort of servant would be so tender-skinned or speak so high-and-mighty?” He wrinkled his nose, seeming shocked at the very idea. His pale eyes lost for a moment in the wrinkles of his squint as he paused. “Hmm...It does, however, give me a thought. If she claims to be a servant, why not test that?”

Davian was a little taken aback and it obviously showed.

“Well, think about it.” He gave a shrug. “There’s plenty of things she could do aboard the ship, Captain. I leave it to you to decide, of course. I’m just suggesting that keeping her in that closet for the whole journey will do her only harm and you no good at all. Fresh air, a decent place to put her head down at night?” 

Wolna stepped back, mopping at his brow. “I mean, if I can’t talk you out of lowering yourself to the position of a slave-runner...” Wolna had been a voice of dissent since the plot had been made known to the upper level of the crew, so his tone that edged near mutinous was not surprising. “I may as well do what I can to make sure you at least get your chance to get to Viscardi. Pray that something good comes out of this in the end.” 

Davian nodded faintly, his brain grinding on all that had been said. “I’ll consider it. At any rate, see she’s moved to somewhere with less splinters at least.” he stalked to the chair, dropping down into it, flicking his hand at Wolna to signal he was dismissed.

The door closed, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Wolna had been justified to call him on his hypocrisy. Slave runner? It was distasteful to even admit it to himself. He could not in good conscience pretend that it was anything more noble, even for the reasons he was doing it. He was crawling into Hell but he needed to do so if he was to reach the devil.

Wolna’s reassurance that it was impossible he’d taken the wrong woman, however, had been a mote of comfort. The idea he’d proposed was intriguing. The image of Rosamonde Bouchard scrubbing the deck or down in the galley peeling mounds of potatoes until her fingers were numb...it was pleasant. Her pathetic little display of play-acting would become the noose that hung her. 

The longer he allowed himself to contemplate it, the more enjoyable the thought became. Seeing her brought down a peg or two would be delicious to watch. He let himself see her as he’d seen her on the deck of the Arethuse, her proud posture, her haughty derision. Within a day, he wagered, she’d be begging. Pleading. Attempting to bribe him with money, with power, with her beauty. Whatever she offered, his doubts would be washed away. 

He indulged for a few moments before he rose, making his way out to the deck. The sun was high in the cloudless sky, the brilliance of the wide Lucidan vista lost on Davian as he looked over the Onyx’s crew as they worked. Their little scuffle with the Arethuse had not been too dire, but there were several spots where new wood shone from repairs. Wood and sea spray tinting the air as he inspected the work and then moved to navigation. 

Thulgris was at the wheel and the map was tacked down under a thin layer of gauzy fabric that kept it in place. To follow the northern shipping route to Stilben would send them through The Diver’s Grave, which gave Davian pause. He put no stock in the mythological Dashila the Dreadful of course, but he knew the area, where the cooler waters of the north met the heated waters of the south made the area prone to wild and violent storms. The Onyx was a fine ship, in good condition and well-stocked, but that did not mean he should not consider other paths. 

As he regarded the map, he felt a slight twinge of concern for a different reason. By now the good Captain Nica would have alerted the authorities as to what had befallen the Arethuse and who was responsible. Rosamonde’s father was a man of means and connections. Doubtless the whole of the Clovis Concord would be searching for the Onyx. If he shifted course to the north, he would be in unfriendly waters indeed. To avoid the Concord, however, would mean going south toward Dragshallow Reef and the pirate brotherhood of The Revelry.

He had no quarrel with the Revelry, but that did not mean they were friends. He was not a merchant, nor a Concord ship, but some of the captains that sailed out of Darktow were not as picky as others when it came to who they attacked. 

“Captain?” Thulgris asked, his hands resting lightly on the wheel, awaiting the order. 

“South.” He said it without pleasure. “And pray for fortunate winds.”


	10. Chapter 10

She’d told the captain the truth, but he chose to cling to his ignorance like a child to a favorite threadbare blanket. Let him. It no longer mattered. The fool worked for Viscardi. He had to be working under the false belief that his master's attempt to woo her Mistress had been successful. This meant Master il Aziz was not the villain. He was waiting in Marquet, and soon her mistress would be there as well. Each day Juliana could keep up the ruse was another day's distance between her mistress and danger.

So she would be Rosamonde. She would be sold away and her life would end in The Rotted Lot. She was resolved even if she was terrified. When panic was pushed down, she considered that she was, not being prideful, likely much more educated than the usual woman in … her future profession. It was a port town. The only real port on the eastern coast of Tal’Dorei. It couldn’t possibly be as bad as they said. She might use her unique talents to make up for the ones she would be far less experienced with. It was the best she could hope for.

She followed the dwarf, not to the closet but to a small room that was surprisingly well lit. A tall table bolted to the floor, a small chair and desk to the side by a second door. When the second door opened she’d expected it to be Petrick but to her relief it was not. Nor was it the captain. 

Slightly squarish in shape, the man regarded her from the open doorway. The first thing noted was that he was pale blue. His white hair in tight braids, he wore a shirt of chambray that clung faintly to his skin, as did the loose pants. He appeared to have been caught in the rain. His eyes were quicksilver, both in color and in the swift, smooth way he looked her over. “I am Wolna. I am here to make sure you are well.” 

She narrowed her eyes a bit, dubious that after all this time someone would care to check on her health, but he seemed to radiate a sense of peace and gentility. She glanced down at his offered hand, the fingers all adorned in rings of silver, even the thumbs. 

“It is nice to meet you, Mast.. Mister Wolna.” She reminded herself to speak as if she were her mistress, though she’d not worry over adopting the elven lilt any longer. “It is raining, Sir?” She asked softly. She’d heard no storm, but perhaps it had suddenly sprung up? 

He laughed and shook his head. “No, Miss. It is just my nature to be a bit sodden.” 

He’d been gentle and kind, removing the slivers or wood from her skin, leaving it feeling cool but comfortable. He asked questions and she answered as best she could, remembering she was not herself but Rosamonde. He was polite and respectful in his treatment and when he’d finished, he led her to the adjacent room to rest. A hammock and blanket seeming as grand as featherbed to her. 

She was awakened by a knock, aware as she opened her eyes that it was well past dawn. Mr. Wolna brought her water and, to her relief, a bit of fruit and cheese as well as a slightly stale bun to sate her hunger. It was the best meal she could remember. When she’d finished, he offered his arm and led her up to the deck. . 

The sunlight stung her eyes but she basked nonetheless. The warmth seeped into her upturned face for several seconds before she opened her eyes again. The deck was busy with sailors doing their duties, like ants on a hill, moving over the deck, up the rigging, swarming with practiced efficiency. Quite the difference compared to the night before. 

The sky was pristine, cloudless cornflower blue in every direction, the sea steel blue with no visible land in any direction. If not for the circumstances of her situation, she might have found the view beautiful. Turning, she looked upward toward the quarterdeck where arms folded over his chest, stood the captain. 

He was no less handsome than he’d ever been, his face and form the very ideal of masculinity in her estimation, but the only fantasy his image conjured was how pleasurable it would be to shove him over the railing and watch him tumble into the Lucidian. 

“Ah, so you finally decided to rise and shine, Miss Bouchard.” He walked down the stairs with a feline grace that she could not help but notice. “I will have you know that lying about until the sun is high is not allowed for anyone on this ship.” 

“You will forgive, Sir, that until this morning I was in a room with no windows. Difficult to rise with a sun one cannot see. She replied with more than a touch of annoyance. “Nor is it possible to be on deck the moment they’ve awoken if their door is locked from the outside.” 

He merely smirked. “No excuses, Miss Bouchard. If you are going to be taking up room on this ship, you will damn well earn your keep.” Oh, how she wanted to push his smug face in. “You know Annyss, do you not?” He motioned to the female dwarf at the rail with a shaving mirror and razor, scraping the stubble off her chin. 

“I have spoken to her, Sir, but we have yet to be properly introduced.” Unsure what his game was. 

“Good. You obviously know Mr. Wolna and this is Mr. Thulgris.”

She turned as he gestured and flinched despite herself at the looming half-orc standing behind her. “I-I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Thulgris.” He gave her a little scrutinizing once over and a huff of breath that might have been a greeting. 

“These are the only members of the crew you are allowed to speak to, though I do not encourage you to do so unless absolutely necessary.” The unspoken threat in his words was clear. “Today, you’re going to scrub the deck. Begin at the bow, and you may stop when you reach aft.” He smirked, and she let her eyes follow the length and width of the deck. It was massive. She suspected he was waiting for her to fight him on it. 

“So long as we continue to the west, I am agreeable.” She nodded. “Bow you said?” She gave a nod and turned sharply, walking away. She did not look back when he began laughing, fuming quietly. She saw the looks shot her way but did not speak or hold anyone’s glance for more than a second. 

At the front of the ship, a bucket and brush were waiting and she sighed, kneeling down and dunking the brush in, then making scrubbing circles on the weathered wood. The wood oil soap made the brush slippery, and it nearly shot out of her hand a time or two until she calmed down and her work became less an act of subdued fury and more an excuse to enjoy the outdoors and consider her choices, slim as they were.

Her lot was cast. What was done was done so she concentrated on what part of the future was still malleable. She knew where she’d gone wrong. It was her own fault really. He’d surprised her by revealing that she was going to be sold. That and the kiss. A warmth that had nothing to do with the mid-morning sunshine overtook her face. No, that was not a subject to dwell upon. It would not help anyone.

Being honest, she had almost believed that Viscardi had forgotten them. They had been out of the Menagerie Coast for so long. Had he been portraying all along that he was to marry her? She thought that a year would have cooled his temper, or at least presented him with a diversion to make him put her mistress aside. It seemed she was very wrong. 

She frowned as she dug deeper into the scrubbing. Her skin was aching and reddened, her arm hurting from the wrist to the middle of her back, but as she’d guessed, the sun was blocked by the sails within a few hours. The crew moved around her, none speaking, though they made their presence known in other ways, mostly in trying to make her work harder. Leaving filthy footprints in the wet portion she’d just finished scrubbing or refusing to move so she had to wash around them where they stood. 

Perhaps she might convince Mr. Wolna to aid her. Maybe he would believe the truth. If so, she could have him pen a letter to her mistress and tell her everything. No. Despite his kindness he’d shown only utter devotion to his captain. His smooth flowing voice praising him highly. That he was a good man deep down. That he was simply trapped by circumstances beyond his control. She had a hard time believing anyone could make _that man_ do something he did not want to do, however. 

The sun sank slowly, the deck clearing as the crew retired to dinner and bed. She was not dismissed so she did not stop. She would not give him the pleasure of seeing her weakness. Her hair and dress soaked with sweat, her skin stinging and sore where the sun had burned it and she was sure she would never stand straight again, but she’d drop dead on deck before she asked that man for a sip of water, much less respite. 

The more she ached, the slower she went and if she did not find a second wind she would not be finished until the wee hours of the morning. Still, she focused and made a challenge of it. Another foot for her mistress. Another row of planks to honor her house. To be a credit to her, she had to do this work without complaint. Without tears. 

Heavy footsteps made the deck boards tremble faintly as the dwarf moved over and looked down, her arms crossed. 

“Captain says you’re to bunk with me from now on. Come on.”

She glanced up and bit back a groan as she unfolded. Her knees were shaking and her hands were red and blistered but she would not let them see her cowed. She had failed her mistress, but her death could not fix anything. Shakily at first, she put one bare foot before the other and followed Annyss down into the ship. The room was small, a low slung hammock stretched across the room at the far end and a large chest sat bolted to the wall.

“You can have the floor.” She motioned to a pallet of a folded portion of sailcloth and a rolled up blanket. Without objection, Juliana fell into the waiting spot, the blanket rolled under her head, curling up and facing the wall. She was asleep before she could even contemplate how she’d survive tomorrow.

* * * *

She followed the one called Thulgris as he led her down into the depths of the ship. Two or three times, she opened her mouth, thinking to begin a conversation but stopped herself each time she caught his glowering profile. It was obvious he did not care for her.

“This is our galley. We don’t keep a cook so we take turns.”

The room was dismal but warm. Plank tables hung from ropes, swinging lightly over empty benches. The walls were lined with barrels and at the back was a room of whitewash and brick where a stove was lit, the embers still glowing. On the walls, there were casks of salt and flour, jars of spices, hanging cuts of meat and dried fish, dull copper pans and stacks of plates, mugs, bowls of wood or tin. 

“Sit.” The half-orc motioned to a low stool beside a piled stack of burlap sacks. From his pocket, he withdrew what looked like an oval bit of wood, but a flick of his wrist sent a hidden blade to unfold. “Get to peeling.” he motioned to the bags as he dropped onto the nearest bench and folded his arms across his chest. It was obvious she was not trusted to be alone with a knife. 

“Thank you.” She attempted to be gracious, sitting down and removing a carrot from the bag. She spread out her skirt, having no desire to get the peelings everywhere and began to scrape the skin away from the root. It was soon slippery and she nearly cut herself several times until she managed to get a better idea of how to do it. 

“You are Thulgris?” She could feel his eyes burning into her and the silence was growing painful. 

“And you are Rosamonde.” He said with bitter hatred. 

“So I am told.” Glancing up as she set the skinless carrot aside and began a new one. She did not want to lie and say she actually was her mistress, but she would not argue the point. 

He said no more, and she resigned herself to the deafening quiet, the scratching of the blade along the length of the vegetable skittering with each tiny indention. Turning it, the blade slipped and she nicked her finger. “Ow!” she hissed and inspected it, seeing it was a small cut and not life-threatening, she went on through two more before another word was spoken. 

“Here, you’re doing it wrong.” Thulgris rose and took the carrot and knife from her hand. “Like this.” he laid the root across his palm, the blade set against it at the widest part, his fingers holding it still, but low and out of the way of the knife’s blade. He slid it down and a long shaving slid off like a slice of wood from a carpenter’s plane. A little wriggle of fingers turned it so a fresh bit of skin showed and again, that long strip was banished. 

She reached up to take the blade and carrot, trying it his way and finding that, while not easy, it was certainly easier than she’d been doing it. “Again, thank you.” 

He grunted and returned to his bench. “You expected the captain to believe you’re a servant? Can’t even peel carrots.” 

So the captain had told him. “There is no cook here, you said?” Keeping her tone polite. “Is there a cooper or a carpenter?”

“Aye…” he growled, his lip curled above one jutting tooth.

“And a… what are they called, the people who handle the cannons?”

“Gunner, aye, we’ve a gunner, and a few powder monkeys.” He sounded confused as if he could sense this was leading somewhere but did not know where.

“Do you know how to build a barrel or repair the ship or load the cannons?” She grabbed a fresh carrot and looked up at him, seeing him realize where she was heading. “So it is with servants. Some are not trained to peel or cook. Some are trained to defend or to act as a nurse. Some are trained as a companion.”

“Companion. A fancy name for a whore?”

“No, Mr. Thulgris. Such servants keep their mistress company. Dress her hair, help her with her clothes, listen to their troubles and help her in whatever way she requires it, whether that is carrying parcels or writing letters…” She shrugged softly, taking up another twisted root to peel. 

He watched her with a narrowed gaze. “Suppose you were such a servant. Why would you not say so from the start?

She gave him a studious once-over, as if weighing her thoughts before speaking. “I will play along, Sir. If I were Juliana, servant to Rosamonde instead of the lady herself, I would have, at the time, thought only of protecting my mistress from a wicked kidnapper.”

“Not too stupid I suppose. Why not just keep pretending then?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps a servant such as that would rather die under her own name.”

“No, seriously.” he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Why not just play along. Seduce him. You could convince him far better with kisses and pouting than .. shouting and calling him vermin.”

She gasped as he confessed to eavesdropping. “Mr. Thulgris…” flustered a bit she nearly dropped her carrot. “I am not free to do such things, and the moment he…” she glanced up then away, blushing. “He would know I was not what he expected.” 

“What are you saying, that you’re a virgin?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I am not.” She shuddered a bit and focused on the carrot. “But I am certainly not as … practiced and graceful as my mistress. I hold no joy in being embraced.” 

Thulgris said no more, just sitting there in silence as she peeled. Her hands were stained and bore a few more small nicks before she had finished the bag. When she had done so, he had her cut them up into a large pot of water and set it aside, then begin on an equally large sack of potatoes.

Working in the bowels of the ship spared her the burning of the sun but traded it for the burning of the stove. Heavy pots of fresh water boiling, pans of meat seared and browned to be chunked and thrown in to flavor the pile of peeled roots she now had to chop into chunks. The air redolent with rich savory smells and while her own stomach growled, she did not have time to eat.

Sunset came, and with it the pouring of a ravenous crew. As they passed she filled their bowls and endured their whispered taunts. Some reminding her of what awaited her in Stilben, others promising what would happen if they were lucky enough to find her alone, still others hissing curses at her for what she’d done. That she deserved everything she was getting. She showed no sign of caring, though each word was a pin driven under her skin, dying by inches inside. 

When they’d finished eating, she had to boil seawater and wash each dish, then the room itself. It seemed the crew stayed so trim by only eating half of their food and throwing the rest to the tabletop, floor, or walls. The pains of the day before compounded, her back and arms, legs and skin hurting so bad it made her unable to stand straight. Still, she forced one foot before the other until she reached Anyss’ room, crawling to her pallet and curling up the dwarf already snoring in her hammock. 

In her sleep she saw her mistress on the deck of the airship. Standing with the whole of Exandria spread out beneath her like a lovely painting, too distant to be a threat to her. Her face was sad. She was alone now. 

“I’m sorry.” She whispered as the dream faded and the darkness overcame her. “I did all I could…” A wave of misery rose and crashed over her, driving her down into a dark place too cold and lonely for dreams to live.


	11. Chapter 11

Wolna was a mother hen. First it was the splinters, then the sunburn, and now he was needling him over the sheer number of root vegetables she’d been made to skin the day before. 

“There is no reason she had to peel all of them.” He stated without harshness, but there was an undercurrent of chiding in his flowing voice. “The soup was delicious but it means the soup in a week will be rather devoid of anything more than broth.” 

He had not thought of that. He had only considered how she’d react to the piles of potatoes, carrots, and such spread out over the table. “Remember this was _your_ idea, Wolna. You said to test her.”

“This is so.” He agreed, dabbing at his brow. 

He was feigning watching the horizon through his spyglass so not to be caught studying her outright. “I think she is learning her lesson quite well. She no doubt regrets her foolish attempt to lie to me.” 

“And what have _you_ learned, Davian?” His voice was firm but not unkind. 

Lowering the glass he turned his dark eyes toward his friend. “You know what she did to me. Do you blame me for wanting a little payback?”

“She threw the inkwell at an armed man come to kill her.” His white brows lifted, daring him to argue that fact. “Hardly done for malice. You, however, are being cruel for the sake of your own enjoyment.” 

Davian huffed but chose not to argue aloud. “If you think her too delicate after today, I will not make the wench lift another finger until I turn her over to the agents in Stilben. Will that satisfy you, Wolna?”

“Yes, Captain.” Wolna’s tone did not seem less irritated but that was nothing that could be helped. He had been the loudest voice of dissent when the plan was laid out in Marquet. His acquiescence was done with respectful bending to the will of the democratic way that The Onyx was run. Majority ruled and he would follow. It did not mean he had to stop protesting, obviously. 

It wasn’t malice on his part either though. It was justice. It was vital to Davian that she be punished for her crimes. For her lover’s crimes. As Wolna moved away down the stairs he was forced to face that perhaps there was more to it. Had he spent so long with Viscardi out of reach that he was wasting all his vengeance on the only party he could get his hands on? Another thought interrupted his musing. If only he _could_ get his hands on her. He hated that she still tempted him. 

Hours on deck, his skin feeling the same burnt tenderness (though no doubt to a much lesser degree than hers) as he’d spent a near equal time under the unforgiving sun watching her. The image of her upon her knees, brush in hand, back bowed and heavy braid swinging as she scrubbed. So easily his mind had twisted it, her skirts up, his hands upon her hips, taking his pleasure. Hated as that lustful ache was, it was made worse by the conclusion that he was likely not the only one possessed of such thoughts. 

Every sailor on deck was watching her, wanting her, overwhelmed by the need to possess her. They were forbidden to speak to her, yet he saw them interact nonetheless. Walking through where she’d just cleaned to make her creep forward and do that patch again. Standing still as she worked at their feet, unmoving as she toiled so close she could touch them. There would be worse infractions as time went on. She would whisper temptation, swear such delights if only they were her way out of bondage. _Rescue me and I will be yours alone_. 

She would never try such a thing with him. He was too smart to fall for her tricks but there were crew who were younger, greener, more given to such romantic leanings. In those sorts, she would paint herself the injured innocent as she had him. She would speak of cruelties on her delicate self. How her skin hurt, her eyes, her hands. The splinters and the stolen kiss becoming true torture and rapacious attempts to rid her of some illusionary virtue and they would believe it. 

To stop the influence she was having on those on deck, he'd secreted her away the following day under Thulgris' watch. The half-orc was not tempted by any woman in all his time knowing him. He was devoid of any lust save for the urge to do battle. He knew no seduction would even dent his thick armor against all carnal thought. She was out of sight, but hardly out of mind however, as he spent his day wondering over her. Unable to see her for himself he found he missed that view. Which, in turn, brokered only fury which he had to turn outward toward her else he had only himself to blame. 

She was working to weave her charms and he was slipping. He craved a Clovis Concord ship to break the horizon, to give him something to turn his mind to instead of envisioning her delicate hands sliding over the length of the thick root vegetables, wet in her fingers, the blade sliding downward, revealing the pale flesh beneath the dull exterior, turning, exposing more with each slow drag until was devoid of anything but that which was to be devoured ... He'd squinted to bring his focus back and retired to his quarters in a sour mood. 

She was in his grasp and yet beyond it. He could see her, but not touch. He feared that part of himself that grew simultaneously hard and softened by her proximity. At dinner he'd slipped into the galley to watch her serve. He saw her flinch faintly at words he could not hear, but she did not rise to any baiting, only served the soup and bread and turned her attention to the next in line. She carried herself with grace despite how weary she must have been. 

He'd spoken to Thulgris who testified she had been utterly hopeless, but did not ask for help nor refuse it when offered. She had been civil and made no attempt to bribe him, to seduce him, nor did she spend her time venting bile and casting insults. 

"I cannot think she is a servant, Captain." Thulgris had confessed when they had stepped out into the hall. "Her hands, her tongue, they are too fine." 

Something in his tone made Davian pause. "But?"

"I think she is not what you have said either." His burly arms folding over his inked chest. 

“Oh?” He felt that stab of something ugly in the back of his mind. “What _do_ you think she is then?”

“You said she was cruel and haughty and wicked. That she deserved what we were doing to her. I have seen only a woman who cares more about others than she does herself.” He was matter-of-fact in his words, no dewy sighs of one besmitten, and yet it rankled him. 

“She is a fine actress, I am the first to admit it, Thulgris, but it is only that. An act. She reads men with the ease of a children’s book and then uses whatever allure will work. She no doubt saw you would not be swayed by batted lashes and pouting and chose to take the route she did. The damsel resigned to her lot, a wounded baby bunny aware that wolves will eat her, but …” he pressed his wrist to his brow in a dramatic pose. “At least her little fluffy bunny family will be able to get away.”

The half-orc frowned and stood to his full height. He looked as if there were words just behind his lips, they burned in his eyes but he swallowed them and gave a curt nod. “If that is what you wish to think, Captain, I will not speak against you.” 

He’d left then, furious and more determined than ever to make them see what he saw. Today her chore had been the laundry. Every blanket, every spare bit of clothing his crew could manage had been left in a pile nearly half as tall as she was greeting her when she was roused just after sunrise. 

He expected the tears to come. The petulant stomped foot as she reached the limit of even her willful determination to keep him hoodwinked. But no, he’d spent hours watching her on her knees, bucket and washing board before her as she scrubbed and wrung out the laundry. Her dress, the same ill-fitting grey, now stained with wood oil and spilled soup, clinging damply to her as she lifted the heavy woolen blankets, struggling to get them across the lines he’d had run across a portion of the deck. 

Her hair was a mess, her skin the hue of a boiled crab but still he wanted her. He was furious at himself for letting her get to him, passing off the glass and stalking to his chambers to pace in private. Why would she not be what he needed her to be? Why did she weave doubt and desire in his brain until he couldn’t think straight? 

He could not trust himself, nor could he trust his crew. They all said the same things. Anyss told him how she slept on the floor without complaint, how in her sleep she apologized for her weakness. Wolna told him that even as he’d pulled splinter after splinter out of her sea-burned skin she had not once spoken against him or begged for help to escape. The word he’d used was ‘resolved’. Even stoic Thulgris admitting she was not what he’d been told to expect. 

He could not let himself believe it. He had one shred of hope, and it was pinned to her being unforgivable. A thing and not a woman. A creature so wicked that to sell her for his own gain was an act of noble retribution, not the cruel abuse of a villain. If she were truly innocent then everything he had done would be for nothing.

* * * *

The clothes had been washed, the lines strung across the deck creaked softly under the weight of their burden. Juliana sat on a folded stack of sailcloth, legs drawn up as she reached into the basket, pulling out a stocking and sliding it across the unpeeled potato. It was not the polished mahogany darning egg she was used to, but she was making it work.

The woolen thread drifted through her fingers as the needle wove across the hole, back and forth, up and down to create a solid patch where there had been only hole. This task, at last, was one she had done a hundred times before. Familiarity allowed her hands to move while her mind was free to slip to think over other things. 

They were nearly, by her measure, a third of the way to their goal. By Wilds Grandeur, she would be in Stilben. A faint smile touched her lips to think of the years gone by, sailing for the pleasure of enjoying the sea and the sky, the wind and the rain and the beauty of nature. She would force her thoughts to future journeys from Shamal. Of her mistress enjoying the beauty of aquamarine oceans and white beaches rather than the dismal imagining of what the holiday must be like in a swamp. 

“Hello, Juliana.” 

She looked up at the sound of her name into the face of Mr. Petrick. Her mental wander ended, she focused her gaze on her darning and bit back any sharp retort. If she ignored him, perhaps he would walk away. She had been, it seemed, trusted enough to not throw herself overboard or commit suicide by a thousand needle stabs as her guard and roomate Anyss had left her to her sewing. 

“Mr. Petrick, you have said yourself that is not my name.” She finished the hole and moved to another. 

“We know the truth, you and I.” His voice made her skin crawl as it always had. “I could spare you this torment you know.” He stood, seemingly inspecting a coat as it swayed with its brethren on the line. “The captain is as ignorant of Rosamonde’s true face as a peasant is the weight of a platinum piece. I could simply say ‘in the shadows of the cabin I mistook her for her mistress, so similar in face and form they are.” His cold blue eyes turning toward her.

“My mistress and myself are as similar as meat and wine. Keeping company often does not make us twins.” She stripped the stocking off and tossed it to the ‘completed’ side, lifting another from the ‘to do’ pile. 

“Is it harder for a fool like him to believe he was deceived by a close look-alike or a complete opposite?” His unctuous tone seemed to make the air taste oily and thick. “Come, girl. You know I have always had a soft spot for you.” 

“Yes.” She said with all the chill she’d had to feign for the captain’s sake. For him it came as naturally as breathing. “I heard the other servants speaking of your _soft spot_. Most men would not brag about such a pitiable impotence.” 

She heard his teeth grinding. “I have been instructed by the captain to speak to no one outside his limited list, Sir. Do walk on.” Reloading her needle with a new color of thread. She would not rise to his baiting further. It wouldn’t end well for her, she knew. 

“He is below decks.” She found her arm ensnared and his face far too close as he pulled her to stand. “So I will do what I please.” 

Instinct sent her to shove the needle into the fleshy part of his hand between thumb and forefinger, causing his grip to loosen. She backed up, thinking to shout for Anyss but she did not wish to cause them to think she could not be trusted to be allowed even this small freedom. “Walk. On.” She said under her breath. “The captain may be below decks but that does not mean every pair of eyes are. As you said, Sir.” Her voice was quiet. “Rough handling might well make my value diminish.” 

He glared, but then smiled in a way that gave her a sudden feeling of having missed a stair. “You are, of course, quite correct.” He stepped back and turned without another word, casually strolling along the deck. Nervousness began to eat at her former feeling of assurance and as she took her darning back in hand, she could not help but wonder what had sparked that look of triumph.

* * * *

A knock roused him from his unwanted reverie and he stood, pretending to be studying the map spread out on the desk as he spoke. “Enter!”

He glanced up at the door as it opened, the figure of Viscardi’s man breaching it. “Ah, Captain Harcourt. I hope I do not disturb.” 

“Nothing of the kind.” He motioned him to close the door. “Please, do come in. Sit. Would you care for something to drink?” Oh, the very image of consideration. An unwanted guest that should have died as his friend had. Davian hated the idea of having Viscardi’s spies among his people. Both were supposed to have had ‘accidents’ during the taking of the Arethuse. This one’s cowardice had spared him. 

“Oh, no, Captain, I did not come to be social. I, sadly, am here to express my deep concern.” There was not a mote of worry in his voice however. 

“Concern over …?” Davian straightened and folded his arms across his chest. 

“Oh, poor Miss Bouchard. I thought it had been made clear that she was not to be harmed and yet I have just seen her on the deck. She is, if I may risk being less than a gentleman in my frank disparagement of a lady’s appearance, a travesty. Her skin is seared and blistering, peeling up in patches, her hair has, I doubt, seen a brush in days, her dress is an atrocity, her hands and nails are chafed and raw, marred by cuts…” he huffed. “Signore Viscardi expects the price paid for a fine lady, not some bedraggled charwoman!” 

The man inhaled deeply and set to smoothing his thinning hair across his scalp. “So, I fear I must insist that you relinquish Miss Bouchard to me until we reach Stilben. I will keep her in my quarters and perhaps the lack of sun and forced labor might at least make her presentable as the prize she has been advertised to his buyers as being. They have come to purchase a delicate dove of rarity and grace, not a … half-starved pigeon.”

Davian hid his fury well. It was not easy as the man said nothing that was untrue. As Wolna had warned him, his sad devotion to tormenting the girl had left him in this position. “Is that so?” He forced his tone to be, at best, conversational. He knew that turning the girl over into Petrick’s hands would not end well for her. 

There was something decidedly unsavory about the man. For one, he willingly worked for Viscardi. Secondly, his voice was that slick, toadying sort of pitch that made Davian’s hackles rise. Then there was the way he looked at Rosamonde, or more honestly, the way she looked at him. His brow twinged where his scar would forever remind him of her temper, but even then she had not looked at him as if she wished him dead. If looks alone could kill, Petrick would have been fish food the instant she laid eyes upon him.

“Perhaps you are right.” Davian nodded. “I am not overly fond of the chit and I have no shame in admitting that watching her suffer has made this journey far more pleasant. However…” He lifted his hands as he cocked his head, a gesture to illustrate his acquiescence to the facts without apologizing for them. “... I do have a somewhat more swift solution. If you will allow?”

Motioning to the door, he walked that way and threw it open, standing in the frame to block Petrick from leaving. He let his eyes move across the deck, taking in the bustle of a usual sunny day. The wind was strong but not terrible, there were no clouds save soft fluffy white puffs to the north and so there was little that needed to be done other than the usual daily maintenance. The lines had been strung and he could see the girl sitting beneath, her head bowed over some handwork mending. 

“Thulgris!” he spoke loud enough for it to carry to the quarterdeck and a few moments later, the heavy footfalls were descending, the tattooed half-orc sliding his spectacles off his nose and into his pocket. 

“Aye, Captain?”

“Go below and find Wolna, and then the chests you procured from the Arethuse. Fetch Anyss and the girl then bring the lot to my quarters.” He moved back, intentionally bumping into Petrick who was right up his back. “Oh, do excuse.” He returned to his desk and sank into his chair. “You’re sure I cannot tempt you to a drink?” The very face of politeness. His mind snatching at threads of a plan that had sprung up on his way to the door.

* * * *

She’d been enjoying the quiet again, having just gotten the rhythm down again when the light was blocked by the wide-shouldered shadow of Mr. Thulgris.

“C’mon. Captain wants you in his quarters.” 

She grit her teeth, stabbing her needle into the potato and setting the half-done sock atop the others needing mending. Had he seen her having a less-than-horrible time doing a chore that wasn’t a torment? Couldn’t let _that_ go unpunished. She might get rest or respite and that was not allowed on Captain’s Harcourt’s ship. 

That was her thought until she spied Petrick lurking in the captain’s quarters. She’d known the little tick would run to the captain. Likely made up some wicked tale of her talking to him first. A crew member might argue that. Might have seen her stab his hand. It didn’t matter. Whether it was flirting or threatening, it was equally damning as she _had_ spoken to him. It would have done no good to answer before she knew the accusation, so she held her tongue.

Behind her, a quartet of crewmen lead the parade, setting down the three familiar chests and then, with a nod of acknowledgement to their captain, walked back as they’d come. 

“Miss Bouchard. We were just speaking of you. Your ears must have been on fire.” He motioned to Petrick who was glowering and eyeing the chests with a very covetous curiosity. 

“Much of me is burned, Sir.” She said plainly. “So I would likely not notice if they were.”

“This is my fault.” He did his best to seem contrite. “I should have listened to you, Wolna. You may, if you are able and, of course, if she is agreeable to it, ease Miss Bouchard’s ailments.” 

She had not noticed Mr. Wolna was there until he stepped from behind her and offered a smile. She narrowed her gaze toward the captain. She recalled how the doctor’s touch had soothed. Why would the captain hurt her only to heal her yet again? What was he playing at?

“Please.” Wolna spoke softly, only audible to her. “It is only your pride that causes you pain now.” 

She knew he was right. Turning him down to spite the captain would do her no good. She nodded and his cool fingers set against her neck at either side. A feeling like being submerged in a cool stream ran down her chest and arms, her body, unnaturally running up over her face and scalp. She looked down at her hands, no longer burned by sun or stove, the cuts now faint pink lines that faded even as she watched. 

“Thank you, Sir.” She patted Wolna’s forearm before he could step away and a harsh ‘ahem!’ from the captain pulled her eyes back to him. He was looking at her sharply, his mouth a firm line. She knew when she’d accepted Mr. Wolna’s help that it would not come without strings attached.

“Mr Petrick has made me realize how terribly I have treated you.” Davian caught her gaze the moment it shifted and held it, letting the hardness there speak louder to her than the gentleness his voice rose with. “I wish to make amends. When you were brought aboard, I ensured your things were brought as well.” He motioned to the trio of trunks. “I am sure that, though you must feel better, you will not feel yourself until you’ve had time to freshen up. Anyss, you will remain with Miss Bouchard. We will wait outside.” he glanced at Petrick. “Like gentlemen.” 

He motioned everyone of the masculine gender to proceed him out, closing the door behind him.


	12. Chapter 12

It had taken all he’d had to keep from pushing Petrick overboard. They had walked the deck as the man insinuated and hinted of some past between Miss Bouchard and himself. Lurid hints of the most wicked sort. Three days ago he’d have taken them as proof she was just what he believed her to be. A hell-bent harlot as evil as her soon-to-be husband. Now, he found he was only offended by the implications being made. 

Why had he found it so easy to believe she was some harlot devoid of a soul? Certainly every story of Rosamonde Bouchard he had gathered was of a silly, spoiled, flirtatious girl who desired wealth and all the trappings that accompanied it but was that evil? No, he trusted the words of a stranger who insulted her only to bolster his heartbroken friend. It was Viscardi’s man who painted her as a cheating vixen and he’d believed it because he’d wanted to. He liked the idea of Viscardi the Cuckold. That she’d betrayed him over and over until even he couldn’t stand it. 

Now he saw she was just some spoiled girl that Viscardi had a desire to hurt. Neither the first nor the last. She’d entered into engagement with him, yes, but perhaps it hadn’t even been her wish. A girl might still be pressed to marry who her father compelled her to. He saw a flash of memory in that now sober clarity. The way her face had looked when she’d said Viscardi’s name. There was no love there, not even the charred remnants of it.

The man at his side now was doing his best to further cast her in that role, yet something in his words was edged in a bitter, sour grapes taste. He’d decided in the moment that Petrick had insisted she be turned over that he would give her the choice between himself and Viscardi’s man. He knew she would choose him. Why that thrilled him so much was something he’d have to take time to dissect when he was not spending every iota of his control stopping himself from cutting out Petrick’s tongue and tossing him to the unforgiving expanse of the wide Lucidian.

* * * *

Freshen up? She eyed the chests with a mix of emotions. That they were here meant they’d found the room. That her mistress was not meant that she’d hidden herself somewhere else. She’d no trousseau but at least she was safe.

“Behind the screen there is a basin and a pitcher of water, mirror, you can get out whatever you need from the trunks.” Her burly arms folded over her chest. “Don’t dawdle though, Captain’s not known for his patience. 

She didn’t doubt it. She knew the trunks well, and the items inside. Throwing open one, she realized they’d been rifled through. The fine silks, the satins, the delicate gowns she’d pressed and folded so gingerly in wrappings of tissue paper were now wadded up like dishrags and shoved back in. 

A small sound of irritation bubbling up as she instinctively tried to smooth them before she gave up and just nudged them aside, digging down for the simpler dresses that belonged to her. They _had_ been folded at the bottom under a clean sheet but now were tangled in the ties of a dozen other dresses. 

It took a bit, but she managed to find the items she needed. Arms laden, she traipsed to the screen and stepped behind. At least she found out how he’d appeared in the room without her hearing a door. She tossed the clothes over the screen and turned to the mirror. Ugh, she looked awful. It was shameful to her house to look like some scarecrow in a field. 

Washing her hair and skin, stripping down to run the damp cloth over every inch before she stepped into her own dress, the grey a softer pearl, fitting correctly, the collar high and the sleeves long enough that only her lower forearms were bare. She combed and braided her hair, the tight twist made at the nape of her neck, her face now looking like her own. She had no shoes, but at least her bare feet would remain a secret if she stood still. 

She stepped out and Anyss gave her a look of disdain. “All those pretty ones and you choose that?” A glance at the still-open trunks and their bounty, a hint of envy in her eyes.

“Your Captain has deigned that I labor while I am aboard. Those are suitable for riding or dancing or attending the theater but not scrubbing pots.” 

“Just a shame is all.” She said as she walked toward the door. “S’all I’m sayin’.” 

She jerked the door open and left it ajar. Mr. Thulgris now visible, he gave a nod of recognition but did not abandon his post, letting the half-open door stand as an announcement. He moved only when the captain and Mr Petrick approached, stepping aside as they entered, then following in their wake.

* * * *

Returning to the room he felt as if he’d been struck in the stomach, all his air driven out. Three trunks, he himself had inspected them and found they held only clothing and few sundry items that would fetch a few silver at best yet of all those gowns, sumptuous and elegant, she chose the only sensible one. Her hair in that strict and tight bun, her skin covered save her face, hands and wrists. He felt that faint doubt again, having to remind himself how useless she was at all the tasks he’d put her to. She confused him.

He closed the doors and retook his crossed-armed stance, guarding in the same posture on this side of the doors as Anyss was pushing the spilling gowns back into the chest and shutting it up tight. 

“Now, Mr. Petrick, do you not agree she is as she ought to be? Poor choice in garments aside?” The captain’s smirk was audible if not worn outright. “No doubt she is saving her pretty dresses to lure the eye of that inevitable high bidder.” 

“Yes, Captain, much improved.” The hint of a leer rose to Petrick’s lips. 

“Good.” Davian clapped his hands together, the crack making both Rosamonde and Petrick flinch. He took a lean back against his desk, his rump resting on the edge, his arms folding across the breadth of his chest. “Well, Miss Bouchard, there has been discussion. That you are, as a lady of breeding and class,” sarcasm still tinting his words but not as strongly as once it would have. “Are not suited to the sort of work that I have been assigning you. Mr. Petrick wishes to take control of your care going forward.” 

She opened her mouth, thinking perhaps to argue, but his raised hand signaled there was more to be said. “He is correct that I have been a very cruel steward of your delicate person. I would then plead a chance to make up for my heinous behavior.” His eyes were glinting like the gem for which his ship was named. 

“I will allow you to choose. You may go with your friend Mr. Petrick and remain secure in his keeping or…” His smile holding no warmth or generosity. “You may remain here, in this room, as my personal guest for the remainder of your journey,” 

“But..” Petrick began. 

“I have given you grave insult, Miss Bouchard.” he stepped forward and took her hand, bending over it, his eyes still showing his amusement and awareness his trap had been sprung. “I would be most grateful if you allowed me to make up for it.”

* * * *

Her heart dropped. She had heard a phrase once. ‘Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea’. Only now did she know the true feeling of that. She was almost tempted to choose Petrick just to watch that supercilious smirk drop off his face, but that would do her far more harm than good. She had only one choice.

She motioned to the window. “Here I can, at least, tell what time it is.” She saw the triumph in the captain’s face. “The thought of being below makes my stomach turn.” Her eyes flicked toward Petrick, who she could tell knew that it wasn’t the lack of sunshine that was making her nauseous at the idea of being in his company. “Your offer is generous, Captain Harcourt. Thank you.” It was rock salt on her tongue, rough and bitter, but she forced a smile as she withdrew her hand, doing so slowly so not to show her distrust or disdain. 

“That was not our bargain, Harcourt!” Petrick hissed between his teeth.

The captain’s gaze shifted as did his frame a moment later, and she was again keenly aware of just how broad his chest and shoulders were, his height equal to Petrick and yet somehow he looked down upon him. “The lady’s safety is paramount. My quarters are far more secure and, as she said, she’ll have sunlight and fresh air.” He gave a flick of his hand toward the door. “ You’re excused.” His eyes leaving Petrick only for a few moments. “All of you. Thulgris, Anyss, take the trunks.” 

The captain stepped away, moving toward the desk and his seat, addressing her without looking. “If you require anything, Miss Bouchard, you have only to tell me. I will have it brought up.” 

She stood rooted to the spot, her eyes on the ground before her, willing herself to not move until they were alone. She could feel without needing to look that Petrick was fuming. At last the door closed and she lifted her eyes. He was behind his desk, writing in a journal of some sort. 

“I did not complain, Sir, about the work.” She said quietly. 

“You were not the one complaining.” He replied, not lifting his eyes. “You made more work than you did. Thanks to your ineptitude in the kitchen, for example, we will likely have to dine on nothing but bone broth as you hacked up the vegetables so badly it required twice the usual amount to make enough soup for the crew.”

That stung and she could not dispute it. She was not accustomed to the chores he’d put her to and no doubt someone more experienced would have done the same work with twice the speed and a fraction of the mistakes. “I am sorry for that. I am not used to such tasks. The darning, however, I am an old hand at and if you allow, I can finish the mending without causing any damage, I promise.” 

His eyes did rise then. “You do not fool me. You tried to tell me you were a servant and so I tested that. You are as much a servant as this pen is a trebuchet. That you put your skills gained embroidering in some solarium to use only made it more clear, Miss Bouchard, that you are a deceitful creature.”

She bit back a retort. She had surrendered her attempt to prove she was herself after all. Still, she also could not lie outright. “Yet you spared me Mr. Petrick. I am grateful for that at least.” She smoothed her palms across her skirt and moved with soft steps away from where he was working. 

She could feel his eyes on her as she made her way toward the screen. 

“What are you doing?” His voice edged in threat. 

“Miss Anyss said it was best I worry over haste rather than care in my dressing. It allowed me no time to clean up after myself.” She looked back over her shoulder. “I am not trying to defy you, Captain Harcourt. If you are to be burdened by my presence, I will do what I can to make it less unbearable.” 

She stepped behind the screen, her heart hammering. She pressed a palm to her stomach which was twisting most rudely. She could see him, not clearly but a shape among shapes through the screen’s lattice. Thankfully he had not followed her. 

She took the towel and wiped down the basin and the stand, collected her discarded clothing and folded it as best she could, as she did the washing cloth and the towel. The soap set to dry on the little rack, she adjusted the mirror to where she best guessed it had been before. No good him stepping to shave and find the glass pointed at his chest instead of his face. 

Her arms laden with the items she stepped back out, finding him still at the desk, the book now gone, his hands steepled before his lips. He was staring toward the corner and she blushed a bit at how intent his eyes were. “I know I am confined, Sir. These represent the last of the laundry however. If you allow me to tend to them…” 

“Put them by the door. Someone will collect them later.” 

“Captain...” She made a soft scoffing sound of protest. “I have left my task undone. It is … rude to expect someone else to have to do so.” 

“I said you’re not to leave this room!” He stood in a single swift motion and she jumped, clutching the laundry closer to her. 

“As.. as you wish, Captain.” She gave a nod and put the clothes near to the door. She was afraid he would change his mind and throw her to Petrick. No doubt that slimy weasel was expecting he’d have her in his reach and all those times he had failed in the past would be revisited with wholly different results. She wrapped her arms around herself and turned, finding he was seated again, but still watching her. “Perhaps a compromise, Captain. Have the mending basket brought here and we might both have what we desire.” 

He smiled in a way that chilled her blood. She remembered with utter clarity the kiss, the press of his body, his hand roaming against her breast, the heat and ache it had inspired even beneath the anger and fear. He had not freed her from her chores aboard the ship, he had merely chosen a different manner of service. She felt that cold dread calm sink in. Devil and the deep blue sea indeed.

* * * *

As the door closed he felt the tension increase. He expected her to argue. To unleash what he knew could be a cold and vicious tongue, and yes, a part of him, though tiny, imagined her all delicate tears as she threw herself into his arms to thank him for saving her. What he had not expected was for her to start cleaning.

He could see her, somewhat, through the screen but only because she was moving and he was aware she was there. He saw her gather and tidy, no sound to betray her emotions reaching his ears. He hung on tenterhooks until she stepped out, her face dry, her eyes clear. So, no tears. That was good. Of course, the first thing she asked to do was leave. He couldn’t allow it. Did she not understand she was now freed of his choice of punishment? She could do what pleased her now and yet she argued. He realized what she was doing. She was rubbing it in. Throwing in his face what he’d made her do. It rankled and he snapped. 

The moment his harsh words crossed the room he saw her flinch and draw back as if struck and regretted his loss of control. Why did she torment him so damned much? Why should she not think he was going to hurt her? All he’d done since they met was cause her fear and pain. He sank back into his chair, seeing her face in those times. Fearful, yes, but still, what was that word Wolna had called her? Resolved. She was resolved even now as she stood by the door. There was a look of acceptance in her eyes. 

Acceptance of her imprisonment. That her choice had made him the lesser of two evils and if she were not compliant, he might well throw her to the wolves. He could not tell her his reasons for keeping her were utterly selfish. She was so calm. He saw her mouth moving, her posture and features showing him only a tight sort of civility. Reasonable and polite. Yet the words that did penetrate his brain were a match to a dry patch of grass. 

_”...we might both have what we desire.”_

He could not stem the smile the thought brought to him. Even as plainly and modestly as she’d chosen to attire herself it did nothing to stem that surge of a dozen fantasies rushing over his memory. Her body molded to his, nothing but sweat between them, her breathless gasps of ecstasy, driven to beg for him for mercy and for more in the same moment. It lasted only a moment, her face like a bucket of cold water thrown over him. It was as if a heavy drapery had been pulled across a sunny window. 

He saw her resolution then. That he was like a slippery knife that cut her or a day toiling in the hot sun. He was a punishment she was just going to have to suffer with that damn accepting calmness. Where was the venom?! The disdainful, cold words that sliced like a razor the last time she’d been brought to this room? Looking back he made himself see that night without the taint of alcohol dulling his thoughts. 

She had been, as far as she knew, alone in the room and she didn’t instantly look for something to defend herself with though he had left items out to tempt her. She only seemed nervous and curious as she circled the room. She had looked sad and unwell, but knowing now what he did that she walked at all was surprising. He had expected when he made his appearance she would shift to seduction. Attempt to lure him with her beauty. Change she did, but it was not fire, but ice she became. 

Looking back he could still feel how angry he’d been. How he’d known she was false and a liar. He wanted to hate her. Was hurt perhaps that she called him vermin. He was. He could admit it now. He was as trapped as she was though. He’d been right when he’d told Thulgris she was a good actress. She’d played that she was cold and haughty and rude and he’d fallen for it like a fool because it was what he wanted to see. 

He wanted her to offer herself to him. When she did not, he had been unable to stop himself from pressing his advantage and taking what he craved. He had thought then that she was not wholly ice. She could easily have bent to his kiss and his hands. Hell, he would have likely fallen for her sweet voice and tender caresses and been tempted to change her fate. She didn’t, however. She struck him, took up a weapon at last in defense not of her life, but of her chastity. Why would a woman who took on more passengers than a tour ship grow so frightened of a little kiss? He saw now that he had no idea who she truly was. 

“Miss Bouchard.” He began, his hands clasping atop the desk. “As I said earlier, I have wronged you. I would ask your indulgence. You cannot go outside because I have said you are to remain in here. If my word is broken so instantly, my crew will see me as weak. If you truly want the basket I will see it brought to you.” 

She was wary, but she nodded. “Thank you.” She stepped away from the door and he noted she still went about shoeless.

“Do your feet still hurt? I can have Wolna…” 

“No, Captain. I am in no pain.” She glanced down. “None of the shoes would fit.” She swallowed softly. “The occasion.” She added with a little blink. “They would be an ill fit for daily wear. They’re for dancing or riding, and I expected to toil. I do not wish them to be ruined.” A hesitant smile touched her lips. “The floors in here are not terrible. I will, I am sure, not suffer unduly.” 

“As you like.” He wouldn’t argue, though he noted her skittishness. “That your future husband has hired me to sell you is known. Why I agreed to do so is not.” He steepled his fingers before his lips. “You are the key, Miss Bouchard, to unlock a door I cannot get through otherwise. I have sold my soul to have this chance at killing him and though I see now you are not the cruel succubus I was told you were, it changes nothing.” 

He set his hands back on the desk. “Except how you may expect to be treated between now and then. I need you healthy, and I need you alive. As long as you do nothing that will ruin either of those states, or leave this room unescorted by myself, you may do as you please.” 

He expected tears perhaps. For her to decry him as a villain, for her to ask why, for her to lash out at him. Instead she sighed softly.

“If my life buys his death, I will pay gladly.” Her voice was still calm, but there was steel in it and when he looked at her, shocked, he saw only that damned resolution twisted up with a look of such hatred he could not stop himself. 

“What did he do to you?” 

“Look around me, Sir. He has taken everything that matters to me. I live now only to hurt him back.” 

She might as well be using his tongue, for the words were those that echoed in his heart with every beat.


	13. Chapter 13

She’d been terrified of what he’d do once they were alone. Flashes of what had happened the last time they’d been here together made her uneasy. Not, she had to admit, wholly out of fear. His hands, his mouth, the press of his body against her. Had she stopped him only because he had insulted her? If he’d not called her a whore, would she have let him lure her to his bed? Would she now bend to any overture he made? If she didn’t, he’d throw her to Petrick certainly. 

Her nerves were taut as a bard’s bowstring and when he hinted at her bare feet she’d answered truthfully as none of the shoes would have fit her. Instantly realizing her mistake she did her best to patch up the slip of her tongue and hoped he didn’t notice. He still believed, as far as he portrayed, that she was Rosamonde Bouchard. Every day he still believed that lie was a day closer to true safety for her mistress.

She moved to the footstool, sitting down, her hands folding in the basket of her lap to await the darning he said he’d see were brought to her. He seemed truly apologetic, laying down the rules of her new manner of captivity. Despite the look she was certain had been laden with lascivious thoughts, he was wholly gentlemanly and plain speaking. 

When he confessed that he intended to do Viscardi harm, she echoed it without thinking. She did not correct herself though. Did her mistress not have even more a reason to want him ended? It was the way he looked at her afterward that made her uncomfortable. Did he imagine her too bloodthirsty to be nobility? If that were so, it was proof he’d never met a noble-born person in his life for they were more likely to cut a throat for a single copper than the lowest born of peasants. 

Instead, he stood and moved to the door. She thought he was leaving but he only stepped into the open space and spoke words she could not make out. A minute later, the basket of mending was in his hands and then set in her lap.

Close as they now were, she could smell that tobacco and leather scent, the sea and the spice. It wasn’t tainted with alcohol this time, and his face was improved by the lack of that sneer. She let her gaze brush over the puckered pink line that transected his eyebrow, thinning as it moved over the lid. He was right, she might have easily ruined that eye. Eyes that were, now that she was able to look at them, a brown so deep it reminded her of a field of soil awaiting the first planting of spring. 

“It gave me character.” his voice low and rumbling, quietly spoken as he remained kneeling before her, his hands still on the edges of the basket. “or so I have been told.” 

She realized she was staring and blushed, shaking her head and concentrating now on the laundry and nothing higher than his fingers as they surrendered the basket to her keeping. “I am glad my aim was not better, Captain. I didn’t intend to hurt you.” 

“Yes you did.” He spoke without harshness. “As well you should have. I had come to kill you after all.”

“Why?” She looked up then, too curious to stop herself. That single question had plagued her ever since that night. 

“I wanted Viscardi to know what it was like to lose the one woman he loved.” 

She should have held her tongue. Should have been noncommittal and merely nodded. Instead she laughed. A wild snap of shocked mirth that instantly was cut off by her hand clapping over her mouth.

“Oh,” She lowered her hand and eyes in embarrassment. “Forgive me, Captain.” She glanced up. “But that is the single stupidest thing I have ever heard in my life.” 

She saw his features cloud, his mouth again taking that downward turn at the edges. “Signore Viscardi _has_ never, _could_ never, care about anyone except himself. You would have stained your soul for nothing.” 

“Yet you are going to marry him.” He had not stopped scowling. “How can you agree to bind yourself to a man you claim to believe is so repellant?”

Oh. Well how was she going to answer that then? He had to believe Rosamonde was going to marry Viscardi. Still, she could not lie. “It is not always a matter of choice, Captain. Sometimes one finds themselves trapped. You have kidnapped me, yes, but I was locked to a path devoid of choices long before you came along.” That was the most truthful way to divert the question.

He had no reply and after a bit, she went back to the basket of mending. Keenly aware of his presence, she risked a look after a few long minutes. He was working again on whatever had been on his desk when she’d first entered. 

The quiet was, at first, oppressive. Her nerves raw and her ears attuned to any sound of movement. As the time passed, however, she sank into the hazy sort of detachment that repetitive work allowed. She finished the last stocking and began on the patching of a particularly hard-worn pair of trousers. 

She had almost forgotten he was there when the creak of his chair’s feet across the floor made her jump, jabbing the needle into her finger. “ow..” She muttered and brushed her thumb across the beading crimson. From under the edge of her tight sleeve she pulled a small square of cloth and pressed it between her thumb and finger firmly. 

“Let me see.” He had already risen and was now closing the distance between them. 

“No, I am fine. There is no need…” Her words cut off as he took the cloth away, turning her hand over in his, the pinprick already just a ruddy spot on her fingertip as his calloused thumb rubbed back and forth against it gently. Her heart seemed to be too large, too high in her chest, making her breath stick beneath it. “Please.” Barely audible, she cleared her throat. “It is nothing.” 

“I had thought it safe to return to my duties on deck.” He intoned, making no effort to release her fingers from his grip. “But if you’re going to do yourself harm then perhaps you should not be allowed sharp objects while I am away.” 

Her heart was pounding in her chest, thick and heavy and it blocked her breathing. It was difficult to push air past much less force a tone of ease to her voice.“Captain, I give my word that you may feel safe to attend to matters of importance without worry.” She tugged and he relented his grip on her fingers, though her skin still tingled where his petting had left the nerves raw. "I will do no further bloodletting in your absence." The faintest note of teasing, seeking to reassure him. Whatever it took for him to go! 

“Rosamonde,” he rose slowly and tucked his hands behind his back. “I am coming to realize that I might have been wrong about you. Made judgements offhand without all the facts. I was cruel. I regret it.” 

He sounded almost contrite. She felt a shiver of unease. It was too much like the lure placed on a rat trap. “I…” She swallowed hard. “I am sure you are very aware of how grateful I am for this.” She gestured to the room, and by doing so, implied the sanctuary he’d granted her. “I know what awaits me when we reach our destination.” She blushed a bit, for she doubted she could ever truly know but could guess. “That I have a few weeks more before I am forced to such degrading service is more than generous of you.”

His hand moved to capture her upper arm, dragging her to stand. His calloused palm slid along her jaw, tipping her chin to lift so she was looking up at him. “What makes you believe that you are not being, as you say, forced to degrading service while you are here, in this room?”

“I…” She couldn’t think, her brain was awash in heat and confusion. “I thought you might have had your fill of hurting me, Captain.” She answered honestly, speaking before she thought. “You may, of course, ask whatever you wish of me. I am no less a slave now than I will become in Stilben.” 

His face was clouded and his mouth a terrible line of anger. She did not flinch away. Reject him and he’d throw her to Petrick who would not even take the moment to consider whether or not to beat her. That he paused at all gave her hope. He pushed himself back as he let her go, his palms coming to slam against the desk as he bent over it. 

“Why?” He grit out between his teeth. “Why are you like this?” He turned on her and she instinctively stepped back and stumbled against the footstool, wavering before catching herself. “Why do you never do as I need for you to do?”

“What have I not done?!” She snapped back before she could stop herself. She was weary of work and tension and fear. “Every job you have put before me I have done my very best to accomplish. I cut myself, I have been burned, bruised, blistered…” She could not stop now that she’d begun. “... I have not felt secure enough to have an hour of restful slumber since the Arethuse. If you need something, just …” She sighed, her exhaustion overtaking her as the words slid to a trickle. “Just tell me what I must do, Sir. I am too tired to guess.” 

He did not turn around, she could not guess his mood, only watch the expanse of his back as he breathed, his body still hunched in that lean on his desk. She was afraid to move, that motion on her part would break this fragile quiet and push him to act on whatever terrible things he was thinking. When he did move, rising suddenly in a pivot to stalk toward the door, she jumped and raised her arms in defense even as she noticed he was walking away, not toward her. 

“Finish the mending, then put the basket outside the door.” He growled as he reached for the handle. “Then, “ he turned and she felt her heart drop, for the look on his face was terrifyingly cold. “I recommend you get some rest. When the sun is set, I will return and there will no longer be any question what your duties are.” Without another word he was gone, the door slammed behind him and she was alone. 

For long minutes she waited, hung on tenterhooks, fearing the opening of the door would follow far more quickly than promised. When it was obvious he was not coming back right away, she let her tension snap and with it, all ability to stand. Sinking down onto the footstool, shaking like a leaf in a winter wind, she wrapped her arms around herself and rocked faintly. 

Her mind was a cacophony of thoughts, like a maddened crowd with only one voice, her own, shouting over one another. She let the panic wane, slowly the noise became just a stream of quiet worries and fears she could now deal with. She was sure it was not her imagination. His threat was that he would return at sunset and take her to his bed. 

She knew what men could do when their hungers were upon them. The pain and shame of it. She should be consumed with disgust at the thought of being touched, of being naked under his hands, of his body upon her, his breath hot on her cheek. What truly disgusted her was that she wasn’t as horrified and sickened as she ought to be. 

She would be sensible. Think of it as she’d thought about any other troubling issue. He was not unhandsome. He was, though she had only his word for it, a lover of experience and skill. Perhaps it would be even tolerable to endure. Even as she thought it, she blushed hotter with the knowledge that a part of her was curious, even excited to find out. 

In the next instant all heat turned to ice at the knowledge that the moment it came down to it, he would know she was not her mistress. She, for once, actually did wish she were Rosamonde. Her mistress was a woman not only familiar with flirtation, but an expert in it. Wielding her femininity like a razor, cutting them to ribbons before they could defend against it. 

Rosamonde would have no issue here. She would seduce the captain easily. Render him just another panting pup at her hemline, consumed with the need to possess her utterly, twisting him around her finger until she made him slave to _her_ whims. He would bask in her beauty and grace and give anything to keep her safe. Instead, he did not have the glorious Rosamonde, but a feeble and useless simulacrum that would crumble at first inspection. 

Flirting was a dead language in a book. She had seen the words but speaking them fluently was beyond her. Even the thought of aping her mistress was laughable. Alone in the room she could not even attempt it without being overcome with how ridiculous she would look casting sultry glances about and altering her posture to thrust her breasts up like they were being gifted on a platter. 

Pulling the basket closer, she took up the last of the mending to give her hands something to do. The repetitive and familiar work calmed her a bit as she admitted to herself that the idea of lying beneath Captain Harcourt was frightening and made her uneasy but what terrified her was the knowledge that he’d know. That he’d see she was not her mistress. That in his anger, his disgust, he’d throw her to Petrick as punishment.

She saw no path that did not end in her being cast aside. Even if she managed to fool Harcourt into believing she was Rosamonde, he would find her to be a clumsy, bumbling lover and once the alluring temptation of mystery ended in such disappointment, he’d have no reason to keep her. 

To even contemplate being touched by Mr. Petrick made her physically ill. He was repugnant and cruel and to keep out of his hands she had no choice but to make Harcourt want her even when he’d already had her. That would take more than mere imitation. It would take skills she lacked and had no way to learn in the next few hours. The last of the mending fell into the basket and she was no closer to a solution to her problem than when the door had slammed in his wake. 

She heard the latch rattle, looked toward the large window, still brightly showing a sunny afternoon sky, and then back as the door swung open. Her heart slowed its cadence when the dwarven female stepped in, arms laden with another basket. 

“Good afternoon, Miss Anyss.” She gave a polite nod as she rose, collecting her own basket. “I suppose you’ve come to trade baskets.” She would keep her mood pleasant. There was no reason the whole crew had to know she was fit to die of panic. 

“Yeah…” the dwarf looked at her with a quiet sort of ‘what is wrong with you?’ sort of stare before she kicked the door to close behind her, crossing the room to set the basket down and take the mending from her hands. A quick glance to the new basket showed not mending, but her mistress’s toiletry kit, a bottle of perfume, a change of clothes and, to her amusement, a few of her mistress’s tawdry books.

“Captain’s orders.” Anyss grumbled something under her breath after that sounded like ‘ _make up his damn mind_ ’ before continuing. “I’m supposed to ask if there’s anything else you’ll be needing.” 

“Yes, Miss Anyss.” Swallowing softly as she began to make a plan in her head. “Please, unless it would be against his wishes, see that Captain Harcourt’s meal is sent up just before sunset. A bottle of …” what had been on his breath on that first night when he’d accosted her? “Whatever spirit he favors if you have it in stores.” She could not tempt him with her charms, she could perhaps distract him with food and drink. 

“That’s it?” The dwarf snorted faintly. 

“I would also like to tidy up the room, so if you could see a broom and some cloths along with wood and brass polish are sent, I would be grateful. Thank you.” 

“I’d have asked for a weapon…” Anyss grumbled as she stalked out, the mending basket tucked under one well-muscled arm, the door closing this time filled Juliana less with panic and more with a sense of time slipping away from her. The bucket of supplies and broom arrived a few minutes later and she occupied herself with the task of making certain there was not a mote of dust, not a fingerprint left behind. 

She kept cleaning even after it was sensibly spotless. It was better than what she knew would come after. “No putting it off.” She said to herself quietly as she gathered up the cleaning things and put them securely into a corner behind the screen, glancing at her reflection for a moment. It had to be done. She’d done this a thousand times for her mistress, but never for herself. 

First, she washed her hands and face, scrubbing away the sweat and the bits of brass polish that clung to her cuticles. “You are Rosamonde Bouchard.” She swallowed as she reached up to undo her hair and seek the brush. “You had best start acting like it.” 

It was far more difficult to arrange hair when it wasn’t on a head before you, reflected in a mirror. The angle was all wrong but she had to eventually call it close enough to the soft tumble updo her mistress favored in her more private meetings with beaus. Each turn of her head drug strands across her bare neck, tickled her cheek, brushed her brow and drove her to lift her fingers and tuck it back away. She felt naked even though she had not even begun to don the gown that Aynss had brought for her. 

Stripping down, she could not help the flush of panic that any second the door would open even though the sun still shone through the windows at the back of the room, the sea bright and white-capped beyond them. Any hope that the garments provided would lend even a mote to that feeling of protection that her usual livery provided was crushed instantly. 

The true Rosamonde was far more slender, far more delicate, and far less curvaceous. The chemise was, thankfully, one of the more voluminous her mistress owned, made to peek through slashes in the tight sleeves of another gown entirely. Unfortunately however it was also one of her thinnest. Translucent amber colored batiste that was no more weighty than a fog against her skin. Quickly, she pulled the overdress over the diaphanous chemise, though it presented problems of its own. 

“Damn…” She muttered as she pulled at the laces. The waist she managed to close, though it was at the cost of anything but shallow breaths for the foreseeable future. To lace it that tightly the remainder of the way was like squeezing paint from a tube, her bosom overrunning the edge of the bodice in a manner both lurid and painful. Tugging the laces to loosen, she had to be content with a wide V that supported her without making her look like bread loaves rising in a hot kitchen. 

The overgown, rich cream with motes of golden thread embroidering flowers across it, was short enough that her bare feet poked out from beneath. She might be able to squeeze into the dress, but she would have to sacrifice a good chunk of her foot to even hope to slip into her mistress’s dainty slippers. The only mirror was the small one over the wash basin, so it was not until the sunlight had faded enough to turn the windows’ glass into a reflective surface that she saw what she looked like. 

Oh…” She stared, shocked. The woman looking back at her moved as she did, but there was nothing familiar about her. She pivoted a bit, one way then the other, trying to accept the reality. She had been raised to exist in the background. To be pretty enough to be a worthy accessory to her mistress but not to, in any way, pull the eyes of the world away from her. The creature in the glass, even imperfectly reflected, would have done just that. She reached out, fingers trembling, tracing the reflection, afraid of what she saw there. A faint rattle and she squealed in panic when the door opened, whirling around to face her fate. It was not the captain, however, but his dinner and drink. 

The sailor entered, brought up short the moment he noticed her. For a few seconds he stood staring, seemingly as shocked at the image as she had been. There was a slight leering slant to his features rising but he quickly pulled his gaze and crossed the room. "Miss." Giving a faint nod of acknowledgement as he put the tray onto the desk and then darted out without another word. 

Fluttering nervousness danced beneath her palm as she pressed it to her tightly laced stomach. This was not going to work! She was not her mistress any more than a child playing dress-up was a princess. She cast another look to the darkened glass. She couldn't do it. She would be better off just breaking out the windows and throwing herself into the dark Lucidian.

She heard the door behind her and this time, it was his face reflected in the glass. There could be no escape now.


	14. Chapter 14

The wait had been torture. All day he’d suffered with tangled thoughts that swam round like sharks, biting at one another and, driven mad by the smell of blood, turning more viscous. He did not want to sell her off. She was not the viper he’d been promised. He couldn’t stop now though. Without her, this plan faltered and without the plan, there was no hope of reaching his enemy. 

He imagined, for a fleeting few minutes, that if he only had someone he could trust. An agent in Stilben, he could have _them_ buy the girl and keep her safe until he could come back for her and see she was returned home. He didn’t know anyone he’d trust, there was no promise he’d even return. It was very likely that in order to take Viscardi down, he would have to sacrifice his own life to do it. No, it wouldn’t work. 

In addition to his thoughts on Rosamonde, he was plagued by the clarity of the eastern horizon. The Arethuse would have made port ages ago. Why had no Concord ships appeared? The Bouchard name was one of wealth and power. Certainly the father would demand they go after his child. Yet there had been nothing but a single distant merchant vessel sighted in all the days since they’d brought her aboard. Such an easy escape seemed very very wrong. 

He felt torn. Did the empty seas bother him so much because part of him _wanted_ them to steal her back? That he would rot in some Concord prison was not a happy thought, even if tempered by the idea that she would be safe. But would she? If her father was pressing her to marry Viscardi, he might well consider the word of a kidnapper suspect and decry him a liar and send Rosamonde to Viscardi anyway. She was safer with him. He had to suppress a huff of laughter at that. He was going to sell her into slavery and he actually deluded himself to think of himself as something other than a danger to her?

The sun dipped before him, creeping toward the edge of the water, turning the sky to reds and oranges, reflected back in the darkening Lucidan, the first stars peeking out in a ceiling of indigo. Sunset, he’d said, and he would be good to his word. As he made his last few checks, left orders for those coming on night shift duty, he planned in his head how it would go. He’d be clear. She was to remain in the room and he would not touch her in any way inappropriately. He was not the sort of man to take what he wanted from a woman with violence, and he accepted that using fear as leverage was no different. 

He opened the door and stepped inside, expecting the woman he had left behind with her sewing. The demure, almost plain creature so determined to deny her femininity. Her current image hit him in the gut and stole his breath. 

The honey wheat hair in soft tousled bits fell from the uppinning and framed her face. Her gown glinted in the lantern’s glow, as did she, almost luminously opalescent. The gown was half undone, the fullness of her breasts cradled by the edge of the bodice in a manner that tempted his fingers to snap the threads and end their captivity. 

“Captain.” She gave a courteous bow of her head. “I took the liberty of having your meal brought up. I hope that was not too bold.” 

He shook his head, letting the door close tightly behind him. The last thing he was thinking about now was food. Still, it might distract. “No. It’s fine.” He stalked toward the dividing screen and the washstand beyond. He’d use the time to get himself back on track. He’d ordered Anyss to bring up something less staid, yes, but he had not expected… that. 

The cool water splashed on his face, running downward to dampen his shirt as he stripped his coat off and hung it on a peg as he did most nights. His hands washed, he rolled up his sleeves and steeled himself to go eat and make it clear he was not going to let his base nature overwhelm him. She had laid out the meal on his desk, a moment of panic before he saw that all his maps were not only removed, but carefully returned to the spaces they belonged. 

“All is well above decks, Captain?” She inquired with a polite smile, pouring a goblet of clear water. The gown left her sleeves bared, the fabric so thin he could see every line of her arms as she set the pitcher down. She walked toward him, and he knew it was likewise that gossamer translucence everywhere, so each peek of it made him subtly seek a flash of skin beneath. She held out the goblet with that sociable sort of smile he could not read. 

“Yes.” He took the goblet and drank it down by half. “No sign of anything dangerous anyway.” He felt off-footed as he took his chair. “You look… very nice.” he admitted as he took up the fork and knife. 

“Thank you, Captain.” She stood at the corner of the desk, hands clasped before her waist. Why was she just standing there watching him eat? He realized then that there was no chair for her other than the bolted one, which would put her in a difficult position, conversationally, or the footstool which was hardly better than sitting on the floor. 

_There’s always your lap._ a voice at the back of his head purred and he frowned. “Sit. I can’t eat if you’re going to just stand there like a prison guard making certain I don’t steal the cutlery.”

“Oh.” She laughed softly and he had to admit that pretty as she had been, a real smile turned a daisy into a rose. “I’m sorry, I do see your point.” She drifted away and, faced with the same issue he’d noticed, chose a less-than-ladylike option. She perched on the arm of the chair. Her fingers curled around the curved top of the wingback on which she rested her cheek. “Is this better?”

It was not. Her skirt was opened faintly, the thin fabric at her shins visible and the line of her leg teased above the obvious nakedness of her feet. She was temptation he was not prepared for. “It’s fine.” He lied and put his eyes to the meal before him. He just wouldn’t look her way. The silence grew oppressive and he had to glance over. She seemed to be in deep thought, looking out the window. “What are you doing over there?”

“Oh, I was merely casting my thoughts to the end of this journey, Captain. I have never been to Stilben myself. Tell me, what is it like?”

He could be polite. Give a modicum of hope. Speak of the size and the richness of being the only port on the Eastern side of Tal Dorei but it felt like lying. “They call it the Rotted Lot. The Bay of K’Tawl is framed by docks that lead to wooden roads through the swamplands and, eventually, to real roads that spread out to trade routes throughout the whole of the continent. The air is rancid with the stink of rotting vegetation, brackish seawater, fish guts… with the buzzing of insects and the crude bartering of the dock workers and the low taverns that lie just beyond the warehouses.” 

“I expect that there are many who make good living there though. Who aren’t so … low.” Nervousness in her voice cracked beneath a civil tongue. 

“I have no doubt.” He admitted, though he’d never ventured past the docks to the more affluent portions inland.

“What will the auction be like, Captain? What is the process?”

He instantly took offense but quickly stopped himself. She had every reason to believe this was something he did as a habit. “Can’t say. I have never been to one in Stilben.” 

“Nor have I.” She sighed softly. “I expect they’re different in each city.” A quiet little smile, glancing toward the window. “Wildemount seems so very far away.” 

He watched her with confusion for a moment. “Yes.” he returned to his meal. “Perhaps you will earn your freedom and return someday.” He could see it. “You’re not unpretty. You have a manner about you that some might find endearing. You could find a rich patron and with your high-born manners you might persuade him to take you home.” 

“I can never return. I would not be welcomed.” She dampened her lips and he felt again the sting of awareness that her pain was his fault. 

“Then have him take you somewhere else.” He snapped as he finished his meal and drained, then refilled his goblet. “It’s your life.” 

“It is, isn’t it?” Sounding as if this were some quiet revelation. “Hmm.” turning those rich golden-brown eyes toward the darkened windows again. After a few seconds of contemplation, she shifted attention back to him. “You said you would make my duties clear tonight, Captain.” rising from her seat, she moved toward him, her hands tightly woven before her. “I am at your mercy. I know that to displease you means I will lose my sanctuary and …”

“Stop.” he snapped as he stood, his hands moving to her shoulders, intending only to keep her from moving closer, unprepared for how the softness of her skin barely hidden under the thin cloth would make his fingers ache. “I am not a good man. You will be taken to Stilben and sold. That is not something I can do anything about, even if I wished to. I am not good, but neither am I evil. I see you hate Petrick. I will not let him touch you. There are rules, yes, that you must follow to remain here but if you disobey, you will be locked in with Anyss, not Petrick. You have my word.” 

She looked up at him and he wished he could know her thoughts. She swallowed hard and lowered her gaze. “The rules being?”

“I have told them to you. You cannot leave this room without my personal escort and you cannot do yourself harm.” 

She nodded, and when the quiet passed for several long seconds, she looked up again. “That is it? For hours I have been pacing here, fearful of your veiled threat of ‘duties’ and … that is it?” She scoffed quietly and shook her head. “You shouted at me for not doing what you expect. Have you looked into the mirror Captain Harcourt?” There was no venom or bite in her tone, only confusion and frustration. 

He let her go and crossed his arms over his chest. “Have you? I come to be civil and discuss your accommodations and you’re waiting for me like… like some cheap trollop for her lover.” He was tense and frustrated and his pride was pricked by her pointing out he was the pot calling the kettle black. 

“Cheap!” she gasped. “This gown cost more than you will see in a year.” She snapped back, obviously her own pride had been stung. “Not to mention it was what I was given to wear. You cannot take offense at a dress that _you_ chose! I was perfectly content in my own dress.” 

“Yet you took it off. Put this on. Laid in wait for me.” 

“Laid in...” she threw up her hands and stalked away, turning after a moment. “I cannot live like this. Melora grant us favorable winds that I might be in Stilben swiftly.” She prayed with a sharp tone, eyes glinting with frustrated anger. “Where, I ask you, was I supposed to be when you decided to arrive that I would not be ‘lying in wait’? The sitting room? The solar perhaps? Maybe if I had been in my own wing of this _vast estate_ I might escape such accusations?” Sarcasm laced into each syllable. 

He was not a good man. He had never claimed to be. She was a temptation the instant he’d entered but with her sharp tongue she cut away at his thin threads of restraint until he acted without thought. The distance closed he caught hold of her upper arms, pulling her onto her tiptoes. “It’s true, this is not some fancy mansion, _My Lady_.” he sneered her title. “But you chose it. I gave my word I would not throw you out, and I won’t even if you spit at me with your harpy’s tongue, you ungrateful...”

Her shock at being grabbed was quickly overcome. “Un.. ungrateful?” She made little stunted sounds between a grunt and a gasp, as if words wanted to come but would not be born. “You are demented.” She shoved at his chest with both hands and wrenched herself free, stepping backward a few paces. “You imply I should be grateful, but yet sneer at me for being civil. I saw you had dinner waiting, I cleaned the room, I attempted to wear what you wanted me to, and you insult me for it. Say I was lying in wait like a cheap whore. I have never known any whores of any price. You, of course, being the expert in such things, what ought I to have done to avoid such a comparison?” 

“What am I to think..” he growled. “Seeing … this…” he gestured at her. “All sweet smiles and ‘here’s your dinner’ and pouring my goblet. Tempting me with every step, every breath.” he shook his head. “You do it so well. How many have fallen to this spell before me, huh? How many fools falling over themselves for the hope you’ll let them touch you, kiss you, love you?” 

She blinked and her own arms folding over her bosom. “Oh, do be serious.” She frowned as she walked away, shaking her head. “I am condemned. I do not argue it. I am doing my level best to accept my fate with grace, and I am weary of your games, Captain. I do not seek to seduce you. I do not wish your touch or kiss or… any other such thing.” She gave a curt nod. “I am gaining my sea legs, as they say, but yet you insist on doing all in your power to keep me feeling out of balance. If I say ‘white’ you insist it is ‘black’. If I attempt politeness it is called seduction. If I speak kindly I am a trollop and if I do not I am a harpy.” She sighed sharply. “Can we not just talk like people? Tell me what you want of me and it will be easier for us both.” 

“What I want is for you to take that dress off. Throw yourself at me. Plead and beg for me to turn around. Offer me anything to spare you a fate worse than death.” he shook his head, overwhelmed by his guilt, his unease about the clear seas, his unfaltered desire to kiss her again, even though he knew it was wrong and the yawning chasm of own loneliness, a darkness that sought to swallow him whole. 

“Oh.” She nodded. “And this will make you content?” 

He stared at her, stepping back until he dropped into the wingback. She sounded so calm. “Yes... No.” he shook his head. “Why aren’t you crying? Screaming and stamping your feet and demanding I take you home?”

She moved closer, sinking down to perch on the footstool, her gown smoothed under her fingertips as she glanced up at him. “Would it make it easier for you if I did that? I doubt it. If you feel even a mote of remorse over what you’ve done, what you will do, it would only make you feel worse. If you don’t, then there is no amount of foot stamping or pleading that would change the course of things so I’d be weeping my eyes red for nothing.”

He looked her over and then sat back, his fingertips set against his temples, rubbing. “I suppose I can’t argue with that.” He sighed. 

She shrugged. “You are likely just not accustomed to women who aren’t whores or crew. I am certainly not crew.” She gave a soft sigh. “By the way, I _am_ sorry about the vegetables, Captain.” 

“My own fault. It was petty of me to make you do it. You were not the only one to lie to me in this … situation Miss Bouchard. Yours, however, I took very personally.” 

“Why, may I ask?”

“Well, I suppose because it insulted my intelligence and was so obviously a lie. You didn’t even try to make up something sensible.” he chuckled. 

She shrugged again. “You are too clever, Captain.” She plucked at her skirt idly. “I wonder though, as we have agreed that I am not crew, and not a whore… what should I be then, in this captivity I am confined to? I don’t do well sitting about idle, Captain, please.” 

He suspected she must have countless diversions in her old life. Libraries and horseback riding and carriages to shopping sprees and theater and such. “I saw the books you packed. Anyss was supposed to have brought some…” 

“Oh, she did, Captain. I am grateful, truly, but…” She glanced up nervously. “In the trunks are my inks. My pens and pads of paper. May I have them?”

He thought on it. It was a simple thing to agree to but he was not the sort who gave something for nothing. This was a chance to set a precedent. “What will you give me for them?”

“Hmm.” She stewed on it for a few moments. “I do not know you well enough to surmise the value you put on such things, but, for the whole of my inks and papers… I would write a letter saying I went with you of my own volition. That the whole thing on the Arethuse was a ruse and I wanted you to take me.” 

He blinked. He’d expected something like ‘a kiss’, not for her to offer to free him from any legal guilt in her kidnapping. “No one would believe it.” 

“Oh, I assure you they would, Captain. I would make it very clear that I knew what the consequences were, and chose them rather than what my fate would have been to stay aboard the Arethuse. I will lie, if you like, and say we were lovers and I chose you over my betrothed. They will have no trouble believing it when they see you.” 

He opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it at the flattery. She had a point. He was far more handsome than Viscardi, but then again, that wasn’t difficult to accomplish. He had heard a dozen or more stories of fine women laid low by the temptation of the ‘bad boy’ and rebellion against a gilded cage so he imagined it wasn’t rare. 

“A letter implies that you are sending it. How will I know you haven’t … woven some secret message into it?”

“I assumed the letter would only be needed if you are caught _after_ we reach Stilben. If they appear before then I will tell them the same thing myself. I will write the letter first, and you may use it as proof if I should attempt to lie and say I did not choose to come with you of my own free will.” 

He mused. She had chosen to come with him, even though it had been ‘do it or I kill everyone’ she hadn’t known it was a bluff. A letter painting her as a runaway rather than a kidnapping victim would certainly go far in tempering one worry. “You have a bargain. I will see they are brought to you in the morning.” 

“Thank you, Captain Harcourt.” She drew a slow breath that he had no choice but to notice did sinful things with the flesh peeking over the edge of her bodice. He forced his eyes to rise, noticing her face showed concern. Worry over something. “Were I not here,” her voice measured and calm. “What would be your schedule for the evening, Captain?”

“Hm.” He sat back and reached up to scratch at his earlobe. “I would … study the charts, make notes of the day in my log, join the men below to dine, walk on deck, cards or dice perhaps if Thulgris were setting up a game. I rise very early so I’d not spend too long doing anything but sleeping. On a ship, any hour one might be woken by trouble so sleep is valuable.”

She nodded. “Captain.” The worry he’d seen was now a tight spring of unease. “When you do … retire. Where…” she cleared her throat, her eyes on the floor. “Where will I be?”

He realized only after a few moments what she was talking about. He opened his mouth to answer but then had to close it. He had been a fool. He’d not thought that far ahead. “I had not considered it.” Admitting it flatly. “I would offer my bed but as you don’t want to sleep in something vermin infested I suppose I will keep my bed and _you_ may sleep in the chair.” 

She was quiet, her hands nervously fidgeting in her lap. “I am sorry I insulted your bed, Sir. I am happy that you will keep it. If you allow, I would be content to have permission to rest behind the screen? I will be easier to ignore if I am out of sight, yes?”

“Of.. of course.” he nodded. “I’ll have your pallet brought.” Something about her was wrong and he, as ever, was vexed because he couldn’t make her fit the mold he had made for her. 

“No!” She said quickly, looking up with wide eyes. “Please, Captain, don’t. I …” She blushed a bit and dropped her eyes but not her chin. “I gave it much thought today. I will be safer if the general belief is that I am … yours.” She wrinkled her nose, but it seemed embarrassment not disgust. “Otherwise questions of why you’d have me here and not be … _indulging_ would rise. He might think you were growing weak and tell his master. If they think you might alter the plan...” 

He felt a stab of fury. To hell with Viscardi! Petrick too. What business was it of theirs? He saw though she had a certain point. If Petrick was in contact with Viscardi, any sign of trouble might alter the plan. Without seeming a loyal man, even if that loyalty was only to the promise of platinum and status, there would be no hope of getting close to Viscardi. All he had done to her had to seem like the actions of a man who was using her for his own tawdry purpose. He kept her in his cabin not because he was kindly sparing her, but because he was abusing her himself. 

“You are right.” He exhaled sharply. “Again.” One trait he’d not had to throw away in his earlier estimation of her was that she was clever. He rose, and she did the same, backing up, still tense with fear. He moved to his bed and pulled one of the pillows and the heavy quilt away, walking past to toss them behind the screen. “That will have to do.” 

“Thank you, Captain.” She gave a shaky smile that faded when it was not returned. 

“Don’t thank me yet.” He closed the distance and snatched her up, one arm around her waist, the other at the back of her neck, tangled in her hair, dragging her head back, his mouth falling against the softness where her shoulder curved into her throat. Ravenously, surrendering to the want he had so brittle a leash upon, he suckled and growled as she whimpered and wriggled. 

Dragging his teeth over her skin as he lifted his head, panting softly, he was glad to see the bright red mark, glinting with saliva, a good bruise by dawn he hoped. Slowly he let her loose, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth, though still he could taste her. “There.” he felt the burr of lust upon his tongue. “They’ll believe it now.” 

She looked up at him, wounded, those gloriously golden eyes glinting with unshed tears. Her lips parted in shock, cheeks warmed clear to her ears. He kissed her. He could not help himself. It was too much. The feel of her in his arms, the taste of her skin, the smell of her which was subtle and sweet. He reveled in the feel of her hands at his shoulders, how the pushing melted to acquiescence, sliding upward, her arms wrapping around his neck, kissing him back. 

For what felt like forever, he just basked in the heat of her mouth against his, the press of her body as his hands roamed over her back and shoulders, pulling her into him. He broke it only to drag a ragged gasp, his lips barely away from her for an instant before he rained hungered trailing pecks over her jawline and the place he’d left tender and raw. Her own breathing quickened and soft, she clung to him as his hands moved along her waist, roughly insininating between them to tug at the laces of her gown without kindness. 

The moment they snapped he slid his palm beneath, capturing her breast in his palm with a low groan. Her own gasp only made him bolder, kneading softly and treasuring the weight in his grip, feeling her nipple hardening against his palm. His lips trailed to her ear, his tongue’s tip tracing the edge of the unadorned lobe before he nipped at it and forced another gasp from her lips. 

His heart was hammering against his chest, his ears rang with the surging blood of his heated pulse. It was only a moment before he realized the hammering, the ringing were not in his head, but on deck. The pounding of feet, the bell. He pushed himself back and turned just as the door flew open, Thulgris framed within.

“Ship spotted, Captain.” 

He stepped between her and the door, a protective barrier as he ran his hand over his still-tingling lips. “Concord caught up at last did they? Well, I am not so concerned as…” 

“No Captain.” Thulgris interrupted. “It is the Revelry.”


	15. Chapter 15

A northern storm gale could not have chilled him as deeply. He turned, his eyes sharp, hands taking hold of her arms. “Do not leave this room.” his voice sharp as he met her eyes, willing her to know just how dangerous this was. It was no time for foolish feminine hysterics. To her credit, she nodded once and turned out of his grip to walk toward the far wall, hands rising to, no doubt, attempt to fix what he’d torn. The pang of guilt was pushed aside as he hurried after Thulgris onto the deck.

“Report!” He barked and from above, the dexterous sailor who had been on watch descended from the crow’s nest, landing with a thump on the deck, his lanky dreads pushed back as he rose to his full height. 

“Aye, Captain. We were following the laid course and when we passed the Gravid… and they just came up from behind.” 

Davian bit back a curse. The choices were not good. South would lead them right to Darktow. North would take them to the Diver’s Grave and as the Revelry was already behind them, that made it a race for Stilben and he had little hope. “Who?”

The scout rubbed the back of his neck. “I am pretty sure it’s the Nessus, though I can’t be sure until I see the flag. Could be someone new.” 

Damn. The Nessus was a small craft. They could likely win if it came to a fight but they’d already used a good deal of powder and shot in their tussle with the Arethuse. He’d enough left over to make a stand, but it would leave him running on empty and there was no promise something worse wouldn't rear its head before they reached port.

Captain Ridley was, if such a thing existed, the best pirate in the Revelry to encounter. He was brutal, devoid of mercy or kindness, but he had a code of sorts and he was, at least, reliable. He’d pull up, he’d barter for an indecent cut of the goods and then go on his merry way. Davian wasn’t sure how well he’d react to disappointment though when he discovered there was no cargo but Rosamonde. 

“Captain?” Thulgris asked from his side. 

“Veer to the North! All sails and douse the lights! Prepare for a fight but let’s keep as many hours between it and now as we can!” He barked loud enough that his orders only had to be given once, the crew jumping to obey. The Nessus was faster, but perhaps the threat of the Diver’s Grave and the storms that so plagued it might be enough to dissuade them. He gave a nod to the scrappy youth who’d dropped down from the high watch. “Back to it, lad.” Already in motion himself to take his place watching and guiding his ship and crew. 

He scanned the horizon before them with a knit brow. He was unfamiliar with these waters. His preferred path kept him far south of Darktow, preferring to come up the coastline from the south when he had business in Stilben. Haste to be done with this particular business had driven him to take a shortcut he now regretted. He knew they’d catch up long before they were to Tal’Dorei, but he could, he hoped, outrun them until the sun had risen and he could at least see his enemy.

The night was long, the lights all doused, racing in the darkness toward the faint flash of dark clouds illuminated occasionally by the flashing of lightning within. The shadow-upon-shade of the other ship grew more visible each hour and the earlier shouting and barking of orders had become a silent watchfulness. 

The Nessus was first and foremost in his thoughts. That did not mean other thoughts did not intrude. Thoughts of Rosamonde’s lips, her softness against him, her return of the kiss had not been imagined. Thulgris had reported she was well. He’d been sent at the start to smother the lights in the cabin and to tell her to keep away from the windows. 

“Fetch Petrick.” he said aloud, a plan forming. He disliked the man, but he was required if the plot newly hatched in Davian’s brain was going to work. His part given, Petrick wasn’t happy, but he agreed in the end just as the eastern sky began to hint at sunrise, the faintest paling of the ebony horizon. 

Davian had hoped their course would dissuade Ridley, but he was closing in and showing no signs of slowing or turning away. The Revelry was a danger but not so great as The Diver’s Grave, the ponderous clouds growing darker. “Skirt to the south!” he snapped to the helmsman. “Keep the storm to starboard! Wolna, buy us some time if you can!” 

“Aye, Captain!” barked as he ran toward the stern. At the back of the ship, the red flag with the black fist that marked the Nessus visible even without a spyglass, he concentrated and it was as if the sea itself shifted, a rushing surge drug a large wave to rise up between them, racing toward the Onyx. “Brace yourselves!” he shouted as it caught them, pushing them forward with a lurch. 

The wave-like a hand shoved them along, skimming the top of the sea for several hundred feet before it crashed at last, the final surge sending every man to grab tight to something or be thrown to the deck. Shaking the seawater from his eyes, Davian could see that they’d tripled the distance between themselves and their pursuers. 

Twice more Wolna spent his energy to give them an advantage and distance before he had to sit and rest. The sun rose, and Davian knew the time for running was coming to an end. He sent his men to motion, striking the sails, dropping anchor and waiting. There was nothing more he could do but wait patiently as the Nessus crept up to their port side. 

The soft sound of the waves lapping at the ships’ hulls seemed loud in the quiet that followed. Davian stood, Thulgris and Wolna just behind him, as the rowboats from the Nessus crossed the space between them. Ladders were lowered and the boarding party from the Nessus began to invade. 

A gibbering goblin scampered up on the rail, sharp teeth bared and yellow eyes flitting across the crew, dagger in hand, watching for any sign of movement. A handful of humans, elves, and the product of both crossed, weapons drawn but not brandished, spreading out on either side as Captain Quinn Ridley stepped onto the deck. 

Davian knew very little about Ridley. He was the product of a human father and a half-elven mother. That elvish grandparent had passed on the almond eyes and smooth skin of the elves without the trouble of pointed ears to make the wearing of his preferred wide-brimmed hats a problem. Though slight of build none saw the lithe figure as weak. Those sad few who had underestimated him in the past found it to be the last thing they ever did.

“Ah, a merry chase indeed, Harcourt.” Airily chuckling as he looked around at the gathered crewmen, a small smirk at the goblin on the rail. “Really?”

The goblin instantly gave a high-pitched snicker and hopped down, giving a polite bow. “Sorry, Cap’n.” The feminine voice made many blink in surprise. “Couldn’t help meself.” The wicked dagger tucked into her belt and she stood with a teasing grin on her lips. 

Rolling his eyes, Ridley turned attention back to Davian. “It isn’t as if we’re not acquainted, Harcourt. Nor have I, to my recollection, been unfair in our past dealings. This makes me curious as to why the sudden decision to make a run for it rather than our usual polite parley.”

“Didn’t know it was you at first, and by the time I did, I decided I’d rather have the sun up than negotiate in the dark.” Davian wanted to portray openness, his arms uncrossed and at his side, careful to keep his hands well away from his sword hilt. 

“Hmm.” the inky dark eyes beneath the wide black brim narrowed a bit but then with a half-shrug, seemed to dismiss it. “Well, it is well past sunrise and I do not like being in these waters so we will err to brevity. What’s the cargo this time, Harcourt?” Index finger held up. “And as time is precious, do not attempt to misrepresent. I haven’t the patience for it. I sense even a hint that you’re being less than completely honest, and I will have no option but to send my own crew to find out the truth.” Shaking his head. “Neither of us wants that.” 

“No real cargo to speak of.” Davian said. “Picked up a passenger, taking them to Stilben… might pick up some work there.” His tone casual and offhand. 

“Oh, a passenger.” Ridley grinned but the smile chilled Davian to his core. “I would so love to meet them.” 

“Of course. One of your crew is welcome to accompany my man to see them brought up.” He didn’t look over his shoulder. “Thulgris, do bring Mr. Petrick to the deck if you please.”

One of the humans peeled away from the group, his axe slid into a holster at his hip as he followed Thulgris down into the belly of the ship. The minutes that passed did not trouble Davian. He knew that this was not just to retrieve Petrick, but to show the other man that there was little else of interest on the way. When the three appeared, that was when the small knot of tension took hold in Davian’s stomach. 

He had talked to Petrick, made it clear what the best plan was. Petrick would play at being a man contracting them to reach Stilben, half the platinum hidden, the other half in two small chests, one taken to Davian’s office, the other kept in Petrick’s room. The story was that it was half before, half when reaching Stilben. If he played his part, there would be little reason for it to go wrong. 

“Good morning, Sir.” Ridley gave a bow of his head and doffed the wide-brimmed hat, his ebony curls hidden for the most part under the bandana of red. “I am Captain Ridley of the Nessus. I am told you hired this man to escort you to Stilben.” The hat settled back in place, Ridley’s arms folded over his chest. “I am pressed to ask why.” 

“Why?” Petrick repeated. “Why am I going to Stilben or … why did I hire _him_?”

“Yes.” Ridley nodded softly. 

“I’m going to Stilben on business for my employer, Rhys Viscardi. His business is none of yours.” The sneer rose but was quickly subdued. “As for why I hired Harcourt, well, I didn’t want to wait. He was available.” 

“That is what they say about the Onyx. They’ll haul anything, no questions. I suspect whatever this mysterious business of your Mr. Viscardi might be, it’s quite lucrative. You sure you can’t enlighten me as to what exactly it might be?” 

Petrick frowned and that knot in Davian’s stomach gave a tightening squeeze. He inwardly willed the idiot to hold his temper and his tongue. All for naught as Petrick, who obviously saw a smaller man as someone he could bully. “As I said, it’s none of your business. Captain warned me you’d probably steal everything I have. Cowardly thieving bastard.” 

Davian would have liked to see Petrick run through, which was more than likely what was going to happen if he took even one more step toward antagonizing Ridley. If that happened, however, he’d arrive at Stilben with no idea who he was to meet or how to ensure he got his reward for selling his soul. Like it or not, he needed Petrick alive. 

“Now now, Mr. Petrick.” He chuckled faintly and clapped the man hard on the shoulder, his fingers digging in as he subtly pulled the man back a bit to faintly insinuate himself into a better defensive position between Ridley and the jackass. “I understand your loyalty, but it’s hardly worth being so offensive over.” He looked at Ridley, showing outwardly only a sheepish sort of apology. “Forgive him, he is, well, an idiot. Viscardi, as I’m sure you know, has a sugar plantation on Te’epala. He just made a very lucrative deal with an importer in Nicodranas and with one side of the Lucidan taken care of, he sent this gent to attempt to make a similar deal on the other.”

Ridley was still staring at Petrick with cold-eyed dislike, his mouth in a tight line of held temper. Davian’s words seemed to sink in slowly, but they were heard. “That’s it?” His lip curling in derision, looking up and down Petrick with obvious bitter judgment. The look shifted to something cannier. “So, this Viscardi person will be shipping a lot of very valuable cargo through this part of the world, hmm?”

Davian saw the thread and sprang upon it. “That’s right.” He pressed his thumb into Petrick’s shoulder unseen. “Mr. Petrick, though an ass, is surely aware that having a safe passage for his boss’s cargo would be worth a great deal.” Infusing every word with weight, hoping that Petrick would cotton on. Paying off Ridley with a portion was better than losing it all. It galled him to think of doing anything that would put more gold in Viscardi’s pocket, but he hadn’t a choice. 

Petrick, wincing a bit and casting a glare his way, saw the same thing. “The captain shouldn’t have been so free with his tongue but… he is correct. Mr. Viscardi is a very wealthy man and as generous to those who aid him as he is merciless to those who stand in his way.” That bullying tone began to rise again and it earned another squeeze into the already sore meat of his shoulder. “I am sure an agreement that benefits everyone could be negotiated, Captain Ridley was it?” 

“Indeed.” Ridley’s sharp eyes slid from Davian to Petrick and back again. As they bored into Davian’s face, he wished he could know what the pirate was thinking. A minute passed. Two. “I imagine it would be a simple thing to ensure that your Mr. Viscardi’s ships didn’t have trouble _too_ often. If, of course, I was well compensated for restraining my natural urges.” A purring sort of chuckle that was joined in by her crew for a few seconds. “Well, one of them.” A little grin and the crew laughed again, a bit more enthusiastically. 

Ridley shook his head, still chuckling. “My other natural urge, well, the primary one really.” The laughter dropped as the sword raised. “Is fighting the Clovis Concord’s stranglehold on free enterprise.” He stepped forward in a swift pair of steps and had the point of the rapier at Davian’s chin, a thrust would send it up into his brain before anyone could act. The others took the cue and arms were brandished, the goblin darting up to set her knife where she could best reach on Petrick’s now fear-stiffened frame. “Which is what I did not three days ago. The poor Concord ship never saw us coming until it was far too late. They didn’t even have a chance to fire.”

Davian stood straight, his hand at his side motioning faintly that none should interfere. He did not want this turning into a brawl. If Ridley wanted him dead, he’d already be turning cold.

“Oh, they screamed and begged but in the end, the ship and everything in it was ours.” A feigned look of surprise on his face. “So imagine how stunned I was when I entered the captain’s quarters and read that my dear friend’s ship had been linked to a kidnapping. A fine lady stolen from her father’s bosom.” His mouth twisted in a pout. “Poor thing.” The rapier’s point turned faintly at the skin behind Davian’s bearded chin. “Didn’t I say be honest about your cargo, Harcourt?” His voice dropped to a quiet growl. “Where… is the girl?”

Davian knew there would be no gain in lying. His mind racing over what to say. If he turned her over to Ridley, he lost everything, but perhaps it would be better. Ridley was a bastard and a pirate, but he’d probably care more about her worth as a hostage. He’d ransom her back to her father and she’d be safe. He’d be lying if he said that it didn’t have merit in his mind. He didn’t want to lose her though. His ardor cooled but he could still feel her in his arms, so tender and tasty and he also had to admit that not wanting to give her up was not only about Viscardi anymore. He couldn’t lie, couldn’t tell the truth either. Luckily, he didn’t have to make that decision.

“He took her.” Petrick squeaked his eyes on the little green creature with the wicked wavy blade dancing about near his beltline. “I ...was supposed to be escorting her to her intended, Signor Viscardi, and this… this _pirate_ overtook the ship. I snuck aboard to … to ensure her virtue was protected but he dragged her off into his quarters just yesterday. I …” Petrick hung his head a bit. “I failed her.” He blinked as if teary as he looked up. “He is going to sell her into slavery when we arrive. I heard him say so.” 

“He’s lying.” Davian said firmly. “She came with me willingly. The whole kidnapping thing was a farce. Her father would have kept us apart.” He had to trust that Rosamonde’s promise to lie to the Clovis Concord would transfer to lying to the Revelry. “Would you want your daughter running off with someone like me?” 

Ridley’s cold glare did not warm, but the smile rose faintly. “We shall see. Tevis, go fetch the girl from Captain Harcourt’s cabin and I’ll get the truth from her.” 

Davian noted movement in his peripheral but dared not move to note anything more. Ridley was leaning in, his baritone voice lowered in volume to just above a whisper. “She pretty, Harcourt? Maybe I’ll take her off your hands for you.” His chuckle edged in lewdness. “For an afternoon at least.”

“Got her, Captain!” a voice barked.

The sword left his neck, but it was not sheathed as Ridley took a step back. “Well, bring her here, let me have a look.” He held Davian’s eyes and it was clear that whatever happened next was punishment for the lies he’d been told. This was meant as a warning to be truthful in all future interactions. If he survived to have any. 

He dared to turn his head, seeing her as she’d been the day before, in that grey gown, her hair again tied up and restrained. She walked much as she had on the Arethuse, her head lifted, her hands before her waist, looking regal despite the poor dress. Her golden eyes touched his, a look given he could not read. She turned her attention to the other Captain and blinked. Her face brightened as sure as the eastern horizon had. "Quinn?!" He quickly looked back to Ridley whose narrowed eyes suddenly widened as did his smile. 

Davian stood agape as Rosamonde threw herself into the pirate’s arms, laughing. They exchanged quiet conversation for a few seconds, Ridley's blade lowered but the crew he'd brought were all still very much armed and ready. Though he wanted to reach out and jerk her out of the pirate's reach, Davian stood his ground. He was still standing, his mouth open, his brow furrowed in confusion when Ridley turned, his arm around Rosamonde. “Captain…” His voice brittle and cutting as broken glass as the rapier was lifted. “We will be adjourning to the Nessus. Join us, won’t you?”

It wasn't an invitation he could refuse.


	16. Chapter 16

Sitting on the deck of the Nessus, he brooded under the broiling sun. Being rowed across the space between the ships, he’d watched with growing fury the other dingy. In it, Rosamonde and Ripley sat, heads together, in conversation he could not hear, but could guess. Surely she was telling him everything. How she’d been so rudely stolen. About the ill treatment she’d received. Omitting any good things to make it clear she was the innocent party and he, a terrible villain who had locked her in a bilge, forced her to labor, and then attempted to deflower her the moment he had her alone. It only infuriated him all the more because it was all true. 

They reached the Nessus and a pair of ropes with hooked ends were lowered to the boat in which Rosamonde and that ship’s captain waited. Hooked at the front and rear, winches from above turned to lift the boat from the water and upward toward the deck. She wouldn’t even have to dampen her dress. 

“Don’t think you’re getting up so easy.” The goblin sitting across from him, turning the dagger in her slender fingers grinned. “You get the ladder.” Her chuckle was humorless and sharp, but he did not outwardly rise to the baiting. Angry as he was, he kept it within and said nothing. It was treacherous stepping from a boat, bobbing in the lapping waves and bumping against the side of a ship, to the ladder that hung a good foot above the boat, the rungs and ropes wet and crusted with salt. 

It was a chore at every point, but eventually he made his way to the deck. Looking around, he saw no sign of Ripley or Rosamond. He could only assume where they’d gone and what they were doing. As he was forced to deal with the spike in the jealousy he’d been feeling since she’d thrown herself into the pirate’s arms, a man stepped up to him. 

“Captain Harcourt, I assume.” The question rhetorical, he continued on without waiting for an answer. “Cap’n Ripley says you’re to wait here.” He gestured to a grouping of barrels, one shorter than the other. “He’ll send for you when he’s ready to parley properly.” 

He was surrounded. There was no gain to be had in picking a fight now. Silently, Davian stepped back and dropped down onto the smaller keg, arms crossing and a look of silent agreement tainted by the urge to strangle evident on his face. The wait began. 

The sun had crept up steadily, marking the hours as they drifted by. He was parched but asked for nothing, not even a sip of water. He would not lower himself. Not like she was. She was surely in Ridley’s arms at this very moment. How swiftly she shifted targets. Not a day ago she had been kissing _him_. Her moans soft and her body warmed and flushed, begging silently for his touch. 

The recollection did little to help with the overwhelming feeling that Ridley had stolen something far more valuable than coin or cargo this time. He had felt, for a single elated moment, like a man again. Not just a male human, but a man with feelings and wants and desires. Tasting hope for salvation from his misery on the soft plane of her lips. His desolation a thirst worse than the dry tongue and cracking lips he now felt. 

From a door that no doubt lead to his chambers, Ridley appeared at last. “Come.” He motioned for Davian to follow and stepped into his quarters. Davian stood and gave the man who’d been standing about as a guard the whole time a derisive curl of his lip before he traced the same path as Ridley, the cool embrace of the shadowed room soothing after the day baking on the deck. 

The quarters were similar to his own, but different. The same wide bank of windows, the same slightly cramped feeling of needing to put too many things in too small a space. Ridley’s walls were bare. No shelves of books or maps. He had no rug, no alcove or screen but there was a small desk with a chair on either side, a hammock off in one corner, and crates and boxes everywhere stacked floor to ceiling in some places. 

“Have a seat.” Ridley motioned him to the chair as he poured a large mug of water from a pitcher. “Drink.” Setting the mug down as he crossed to his own side and sat. His thin fingers steepled before his lips as he rested his elbows atop the ink-stained desk’s surface. “Then, when you’ve moistened your tongue, perhaps you can tell me your side of things.” 

“Don’t see how it’s your business.” Davian growled as he held the mug, not drinking, but glowering over the edge as he held it near his lips. He was parched, but he wouldn’t risk it until he was sure it was safe to drink. 

“The lady is a friend of mine from long ago. I have heard her version of what happened. Yours may differ. Depending on that difference, you may well find yourself free to sail away, or you may be enjoying your last taste of fresh water before I slit you open and feed your guts to the Lucidan’s little denizens and my men force the Onyx and every sailor aboard, into the arms of Dashila.” There was no hint of humor in the pirate’s eyes. He meant every word. 

Inwardly, Davian could only see red. First Ridley stole Rosamonde from his reach and then had the gall to threaten _his_ ship? _His_ crew? He knew the man was far more dangerous than his slight frame belied, but he still could not help but think how, if he moved quick, he might take him by surprise and snap his scrawny neck before he could call for reinforcements. 

Pouring a goblet of the water for himself, Ridley took a sip and sank into the embrace of his chair. “If I am not heard from in one hour’s time, my men will assume the worst and … well, if you care nothing for the men on your ship, please, do continue to plan your attack.” The chill gaze pinned to him without an iota of fear. He held every card and he knew it. 

What choice did he have? He would err to brevity as much as he could. “I was hired to procure the woman. Her intended fiance has no desire to be tied to her, nor does he want to lose the benefits that being so bound would give him as far as the business side of things goes. So, he hired me to divert her to Stilben where she’s to be sold. By the time her father finds her, she’ll have been used by dozens. Hundreds maybe. He’ll understand no proper man would want a worn-out whore for a wife but be too ashamed to risk exposure of her situation, which the man would hold over him as leverage to ensure the business side stayed skewed in his favor.” 

Ridley smirked. “Davian Harcourt? A slaver?” His tone one of dubiousness and shock as well as the sneering derision.

Davian set the mug down, weighing his options. He could tell the whole truth. It might help his cause if Ridley understood the reason. Of course, he would be equally likely to laugh and treat his tale of woe and misery as fodder for mockery. “This man. Her intended. I want him dead but I cannot reach him through regular means. To do this … favor for him will earn me the chance to get vengeance I cannot achieve in any other way.” 

“You sound like one of us.” Ridley chuckled. “I thought you were so much better than we Revelry dogs. So _noble._ So _respectable_. Admit it, Harcourt, you’re just as much a pirate as I am. Why not come to Darktow, talk to the Plank King. We’re not so bad you know. Join us and maybe we can help you take down this very bad man.” Chucking softly into his goblet at his lips. 

It stung but he could not really find any high ground to take. He had always thought himself somehow less wicked than the Revelry, but he was doing something even they hated. Freedom was vital to them as the open sea. Just because Ridley was right, however, did not change the fact that he was not one of them. He did not wish to spend his life in some protracted battle with the law. He just wanted to sail, make money, and be beholden to no one. “I’ll pass.” 

“Suit yourself.” The goblet set down, Ridley folded his hands over his stomach, eying him for several seconds before he stood and walked to a tall stack of crates. With a tug, the whole lower half came swinging open. “If you please.” His hand held out. An arm rose from an open trapdoor in the floor and in a moment, Rosamonde had ascended up to join them. 

“Davian Harcourt, I do not believe you have ever been properly introduced to my childhood friend Juliana.” 

His brow knit. He’d heard that name before. The name she’d used when she tried to convince him she was some kind of servant. “I know who she is.” He expected her to look snide and triumphant. To rub in his face that she’d found someone to take her away. He saw only unease and apology in her eyes and it confused him. 

“Tell me…” Ridley said as he closed the secret door and guided the woman to his side of the desk, offering her his chair before taking a spot half sitting, half leaning on the desk’s edge. “Have you ever heard of the Cerulean Conservatory?”

Davian did not take his eyes off the woman before him. “No.” The mug taken back in hand, he took a gulp of water, but it did nothing to wash away the feeling of anger mixed with frustrated ignorance that rankled him. 

“It’s a den of slavers.” Ridley began, only to be interrupted by the woman’s sharp gasp of indignation. 

“Servants, Quinn.” Her attitude slipping quickly from umbrage to a tone that seemed to ask him to remember something. “We are _servants_.” 

Ridley gave a sound of annoyed disagreement before continuing. “They buy children and raise them to become the perfect companions to the rich. Teach them how to read, how to walk, how to talk. To do hair and mend clothes and have no thought but to please their masters and mistresses.” 

Davian shook his head. “Owning another sentient being is illegal in both the Clovis Concord and on the mainland.” 

“Yeah? Well, as Jules said, they’re technically training servants. It’s so damned charitable of them to give those poor innocent children hope of a better life.” A sneer on his lips. “They tell any authority that those who they train can always leave if they choose. But why would they? All they’ve ever been told is there’s no life but serving their owners. Except for that fact they are raised just like their Masters and Mistresses would be. Better even than most. They’re taught maths and languages, comportment and elegance. Art, music, histories, religion…” he sighed softly, leaning in a bit. 

“Imagine that you have never known hunger. Never known what it was to make a home of your own. Have no family, no friends, and suddenly you’re alone in a world created to grind down the weak.” There was a bitterness in the words that Davian could not help but surmise went deeper than sympathy for the girl. “That’s the fear greater than any other in a Cerulean Conservatory child’s mind.” 

His stomach turned as he again looked at the woman seated by Ridley. It was a sickening realization. She’d been brainwashed since birth. “Why did you lie? Say you were Rosamonde?” He asked, but he knew the answer already. 

“I told you, Captain. It is my duty and pleasure to serve my Mistress as best I can. By now she is safe. Far out of the reach of you, or Viscardi.” She looked up, her eyes glimmering.

It was too much. His head ached with the effort to try to make this new reality fit into his own. She was _not_ Rosamonde. How had he ever let himself believe she was? His inner voice answered that he’d been told so by Petrick. Were they in it together? He couldn’t believe that. Not the way she looked at him.

“So you are some sort of … double? A look-alike to dissuade kidnappers like myself? Rather clever I suppose. Fooled me.” He had to admit it wasn’t the worst idea. 

“Captain…” she gave a soft scoff and hesitant smile. “I look nothing like my Mistress. She is a delicate and petite woman. Half Marquesian with soft brown skin like a doe and hair as long and dark as a winter’s night.” 

He felt a wave of self-recrimination. He had no idea what Rosamonde looked like himself because he’d always assumed he’d met her that first night on the island outside of Port Damali. Rosamond was said by all to be beautiful and elegant and the sort a man would give his life to possess. She’d checked all the boxes. 

He frowned. That son of a bitch Petrick _had_ to know what Rosamonde Bouchard looked like and yet he’d lied? Why? 

“Captain, I am sorry.” He looked up as she spoke again. “I do intend to hold up my part of the bargain. I accept that you need to sell Rosamonde Bouchard in Stilben to facilitate your plan. I will never speak my true name to anyone outside of this room. To the whole of that city I will be their expected Rosamonde Bouchard. You have my word.” 

“And there, Harcourt, lies the core of our issue.” 

Davian twitched, having almost forgotten that Ridley was there until he spoke again. 

“You see, Juliana is a good friend and as such I do not wish to see her harmed. But I am not her master, so I can’t tell her what to do, even if I think it’s foolish. But…” he lifted his hands as if he were scales weighing two items. “If you are dead she is no longer bound to her promise to help you.” He rose and stood behind her, his hand on his sword at his hip. “Then again she asked me to let you live and I am not anxious to prove that I am not who she once knew. You see my dilemma.” 

“I do.” Davian nodded, though his mind was still twisting on the troubling thought of Petrick’s deception. “Ros...Juliana.” He began, the name strange on his lips. “Petrick…” He saw the instant reaction to the name. Utter, undeniable dislike. “Why would he have told me you were Rosamonde? It makes no sense.” 

She frowned faintly, her eyes fixing to the desk before her, deep in thought. “I cannot say, Captain. Only that he well knows I am not my Mistress. Perhaps he thought it too late to turn back and get her. That a quail in hand is better than to risk a hunt for a pheasant. I know little of your plan, Captain, to attempt to guess more.” 

Davian glanced to Ridley who still had his delicate fingers draped lightly around the handle of his sword. Willing to kill to protect a woman who had been a friend in his youth. An idea that had been thought stillborn drew breath. “A moment.” He took time to muse before he’d speak. 

Follow the plan. Continue to Stilben. If he could persuade Ridley to agree to it, then the winning party of the sale would be assured. Ridley would bid highest, thus everyone won, yes? A slight pang of something ugly in him barked ‘no’ but he pushed it aside. Ridley would likely find a way to get her back to … where? That was the first question needing an answer. 

The second was how to make certain he had the money to do it. Enough to buy her and plenty to act as a payment for his help. He was a pirate after all and this raid had to be worth it to him. The last question was one of logistics. The working pieces all put in the proper place so nothing went wrong.

“If I were to tell your friend here,” he gestured toward Ridley. “To take you back to your home…” 

“I cannot!” She gasped softly. “I...I can’t return to Nicodranas, I would have no reason to. I am his daughter’s servant and she is gone. I cannot say where. I cannot risk her safety.” She dropped her eyes. “I would be unwelcome. Though it was for her sake, I abandoned my Mistress and my duties to serve her without fail. That is a crime that cannot be forgiven.” 

He wanted to shake her until her head rattled. She was talking idiocy! Did she not have an iota of pride? She had risked her life, risked terrible things, suffered because of her choice to protect that woman and yet she thought it was somehow a sin? “So where would you go, now that you are free?”

She looked up, her eyes glinting faintly. “With… whoever buys me, Captain.” Spoken as if he were asking a very stupid question. 

His temper was not improving. “Ridley.” he looked his way. “Suppose I asked you to steal her now. Take her away. What would become of her?”

“I suppose Darktow. There’s plenty there would take her in. Teach her a trade. Educated as she is she might even catch the eye of the Plank King. Pretty face and a head for numbers and languages? Yeah, he’d probably employ her.” His sigh spoke of bad news. “Of course, the Plank King from when I left might well not be the one who rules when I arrive. It’s not common, but coups do happen. In which case she’d likely be killed simply because they’d fear repercussions from one loyal to the old order.” 

The idea in its entirety made Davian prickle with displeasure. He didn’t want some filthy pirate touching her. Living her life on a desolate, disgusting island of cutthroats and thieves. She deserved a real life. “No. I’m a bastard but even I can’t just throw her from the pan into the flames.” He rubbed at his chin. “I have another thought.” 

He laid out his plan. Ridley would let them go. They would sail on and Davian would make enough changes in course to slow them down by a half day. Ridley would take the Nessus to Stilben, wait for them to arrive, attend the sale and win the bid on Juliana. He would see her to some decent port, give her a purse large enough to start a life, and leave her in safety. Then, for his time and trouble he’d have five hundred platinum minus whatever he gave to Juliana.

“Won’t work.” Ridley shook his head. “Juliana told me about Viscardi. About his man Petrick. This man knows the Nessus. Knows my face.”

Davian glowered, but Ridley was right. 

“Wait…” Juliana lifted a hand, then stood, leaning close to Ridley, whispering in his ear. Davian tamped down the sudden surge of jealousy that, like on the deck, had nearly driven him to attack without thought. The pair muttered back and forth, and though he could only catch a few words it was enough to realize that the language was none he knew. Whatever she was saying, Ridley was not happy. He nodded once and exhaled as he looked toward Davian. 

“I know someone in Stilben. Someone I trust. Buy me a full day and the Nessus will be gone before you arrive.” He stood with his arm still around Juliana’s waist and Davian was having trouble forcing his eyes not to focus on it. 

“I don’t suppose I have a choice.” He forced his voice to mimic civility though it was clipped and sharp. “Only one question remains. How do we proceed now?”

Ridley smiled in a way that chilled Davian to his soul, then, before he stepped away, he drew Juliana into him, kissed her warmly on the mouth and then lead her back to the still-open door to that portal below. “Wait for me down there, my dear. Your Captain and I will hammer out the details while you rest.” 

When she had gone and the door was again closed, Ridley turned, no sign of the kindness in the eyes that had existed when he looked at Juliana. “We’ve work to do.”


	17. Chapter 17

Would she ever know a week of constancy again? Since she had accompanied her mistress to the Arethuse it seemed her lot had become one of constant flux. First stolen, then locked away only to be drug out again and attacked. Turned to work she had no business attempting, then chided for failure. 

When she’d taken the offer of refuge with the Captain over the degrading option of being alone with Mr. Petrick she’d foolishly thought somewhere deep down that it might mean she’d have the consistency she’d always had. That feeling of comfort that came with knowing that at this hour, this thing happened and at this time there was luncheon and then to the next duty, on and on until sleep was granted and then to rise the next day and know there would be little in the way of deviation. 

On the other hand, she thought as she paced. If what happened in the captain’s chambers was the new schedule for her life, perhaps she was better off with Quinn. They had a history. An understanding of what it meant to be endowed with a servant’s heart. True enough that life had twisted Quinn and broken that heart completely. That was the penance for losing one’s master, she supposed. Cast out with no one to care for them, Quinn had hardened and changed almost more than she could recognize.

Would she do the same? Become jaded and cold? Think only of her own wants and desires above anyone, anything else? She shuddered to think it could happen. She could not be with her mistress, but she would serve he in absentia. Do as would make her, if not proud, then less-than-ashamed with her servant. If she did that, she was not alone. Not abandoned and her name, in her mind at least, would remain among the list of The Faithful.

As she paced in the small room beneath Quinn’s quarters, she fretted quietly. What were they talking about now? Captain Harcourt’s plan was far from perfect, but strain her mind as hard as she could, no better solution came to her. A glance shot to the trap door. Perhaps she could climb up and just put her ear to the crack. No, that was eavesdropping and besides being very rude, it might well backfire if she were caught. She had to be patient and trust that the captains would not attack one another in some masculine display of dominance.

It was a long while before the door opened and Quinn bade her ascend. Returned to the room she felt the tension in the air like stepping into an ice house in early summer. Captain Harcourt was standing aside, his arms folded over his chest, his features hardened as he looked anywhere in the room but in her direction. 

“As much as it pains me to surrender your fine company, Harcourt and I have concluded it best I do so.” Reaching out, their fingers moved over her cheek. “Fret not. Soon enough you’ll be in Stilben and I’ll see you are snapped up by a lady of my … close companionship. You’ll be safe and your future your own to decide.” 

Quinn leaned closer, a lowering of the voice making their conversation more intimate. “I know it is hard to imagine being your own m tress, but I believe in you.” Standing straighter, a hand was thrust out. “Shall we then?” Taking her offered hand and tucking it away in the crook of an elbow, she was lead out onto the deck. 

First thing she’d noticed was that they were a good deal closer than they had been before. One could almost jump across the space between the decks now. It gave her flashbacks of the Arethuse. “Whatever happens next..” Quinn muttered. “It is crucial you trust your captain.” She wondered as they approached the railing whether Quinn was speaking of Harcourt or themselves. 

Again, she was faced with a wide plank of wood. This time she crossed onto the Onyx on her own two feet. Stepping down onto the deck, she glanced at the crew gathered still. There were scattered and armed crewmen of the Nessus still lingering. Watching every move. The tension crackled until Quinn broke it.

“Well… go get it” Quinn’s arm dropped from escort to that cradling grip around her waist. “Or I will happily change my mind.” She found her face turned, looking up into the dark eyes, the thick lashes, the soft smile that edged toward a leer. “She is quite the prize after all.” 

_Trust your captain_ the words echoing as she swallowed hard and then turned away, the blush not something she had to feign. Captain Harcourt growled low and then stalked off, pursued by two of the men. When he made his return, each of the men was burdened with a small chest. 

“As agreed. Now give her back, Ridley.” 

Quinn motioned the pair over and opened the lid of each, the light catching for a moment on what seemed vast quantities of coin. With a huff, the lids were shut and a fluttered hand sent the pair back across the plank. “Put them in my quarters and yes…” Snapped as a look was shot across the shoulder. “I _will_ be counting it.” 

The lovely eyes narrowed before, with a firm shove, Juliana was sent stumbling forward, caught by Captain Harcourt who pushed her behind him, his hand wrapped still around her wrist. “That concludes our business, Ridley.” Captain Harcourt’s voice edged in steel. “Sail. Away.” 

Quinn looked him over, then, with a quickness she recalled well from their youth, the tip of the rapier drove itself into the other captain’s shoulder. She gasped and Harcourt let her go to reach up and cover the wound with a press of his hand. 

“Now we are concluded. A reminder not to lie to me if we meet again, Harcourt.” A turn and bob of his head in her direction. “M’lady.” The sword sheathed, Quinn walked back across, a snap of his fingers bringing his crewmen to do the same, though they backed away, weapons still in hand, watchful and wary until they were on the Nessus. 

She was agape, as were several others. Wolna moved closer, weary-seeming and the captain waved him away. “It’s nothing.” He looked around and raised his voice. “To your posts. Keep a lookout for others. Where there’ one shark there are no doubt more sniffing for blood in the water. We will turn back and head north. Give a wider berth of the Diver’s Grave and come down the coast the other way. It will cost us in time, but it will take us out of Revelry waters at least.” He barked and they obeyed, scampering to make the ship ready to move. 

“You, with me.” He said as he walked toward his quarters. She blinked but followed. “Anyss!” he called and the dwarf paused in her work. “Guard the door. I do not want to be disturbed unless it is life or death.” Juliana moved past him and into the room quickly, jumping a bit when the door slammed. “Captain, I…” She stopped when he began stripping.Averting her eyes she did not know what to think. He could not possibly be of the mind to pick up where they had left off. 

“Ridley said you could fix this.” He growled as he dropped into the chair, his now doffed shirt pressed to the still bleeding shoulder. 

“Oh. Yes.” She nodded and moved without allowing herself to second guess. She had to cobble together supplies. She doubted he would let her go gather the proper kind. Returned, she set them on the floor. “Let me look.” 

He lifted the shirt and she saw the wound was, all things considered, not bad. A hole, but not large and it had already almost stopped bleeding altogether. She tore unbloodied chunks from his ruined shirt and doused one in the dark spirits she’d found in the bottle near his desk. “Forgive me, Captain.” She set it on the wound and he hissed through his teeth but otherwise made no outward show of discomfort. 

“If I had some honey d speradrapu I could do a better job.” Mused as she pressed a folded cloth against the hole. “A shoulder is difficult to bandage. It is not deep though and if you are careful for a few days and avoid tearing it open again, it should heal well enough.” She dampened her lips, glancing up at his face. “May I ask why you did not have Mr. Wolna do as he does?”

“Because this is your fault and you should fix it.” He grumbled. “And, because he is weary from all he’s already done today.” 

“Oh.” She nodded. “I am sorry for not thinking of that. It has been a very bad day for everyone I suspect. Not me, not so terrible as for you I mean. I am not bleeding.”

“Night’s young.” He muttered and nudged her away, patting at the wound with the cloth, seeing the bleeding had stopped. He dropped it beside the chair and glowered for a moment. “What’s a .. speradrapu?” 

“A strip of cloth imbued with a sticky gum. You press it down over a dressing and it eliminates the need for large bandages for smaller or more delicately located wounds.”   
He gave no sign he’d heard but stared ahead, his eyes narrowing faintly now and then. He seemed as if he were in deep thought or having a conversation with himself. Suddenly he stood and she jumped back. “Clean up this mess.” Spoken as he stepped away to pull at one of the drawers beneath his bed and withdraw a clean shirt, taking care to not move his left arm too greatly. 

As she obeyed, she could not help but notice that there were scars on his back as there had been on his chest. Random ones of varied length and shape. He had obviously led a hard life. Putting away the items, she considered how he’d looked when first she met him. He was thin and unwashed but still strong. Like a street dog who had to fight for every morsel. How had he fallen to that place, and what brought him back? She shook her head. It was not her business. 

“So… you and Ridley.” He was tucking in his shirt as he walked toward his desk. “Very close you two.” Plucking rolled maps down and laying them out, the heavy thunk of lead weights set on the corners to keep them from curling up made her twitch each time. 

“Yes, Sir.” He glanced up and seemed to demand more. “We were raised together. Both of us are Sinya Luinë.”

“And what the hell does that mean?” 

“Oh, um… new blue. The Conservatory has two eight-year cycles. The first is the color, then the second that color with the prefix ‘Sinya’, meaning new.” 

“What happens when the year comes back around? Doesn’t that get confusing having two groups with the same name?”

She shook her head. “There is only one. If you are not chosen by the time of the coming of your name-year, you’re stricken from the book and cast out. It is rare, but it happens.” 

“Chosen to be a slave.” He grit out through his teeth. 

“Servant, Captain.” She frowned softly. 

He went quiet for several minutes and she did not know what to do with herself. Should she go and leave him to his maps or remain where she was as he’d not dismissed her? Looking out the window she could see the shadow of the Nessus was fading as the ship changed course. Once out of sight, she knew they’d turn to the west in order to take advantage of the extra time this detour would grant them. That much she’d picked up on. 

“You were chosen then?”

She pulled her thoughts back when he spoke again. “Oh, yes, Captain. Obviously.” 

“By Rosemonde Bouchard.” 

“Yes, Captain.” she thought that was clear. 

“How old were you?” He had stopped studying the map and was now studying her. It was a bit unnerving. 

“Thirteen, Captain. Master Bouchard had decided his daughter was old enough to have a servant of her own. Twelve is the most common age for girls to do this, though I have seen them as young as six and as old as sixteen.” 

“Thirteen.” His jaw tensed and he nodded to himself. “And she just … chose you like picking an apple from a shop?”

“Oh, no, Captain.” She chuckled. “The choosing is not as random as that.” 

“Enlighten me.” He sat down and rolled the topmost map up, setting it aside. “How _does_ it work.

She prickled a bit. He had a tone. As if he were being disdainful. “You do not truly care to know, Captain. You only want to punish me by reminding me of happier times and rub in my face that I am ost.” 

“Yet you will tell me. If you are, as you say, lost, I am the one who has found you. You are mine then, I suppose until I sell you anyway. You seem to like being a slave. So, answer me when I speak as you’re commanded.” 

She growled faintly between her teeth under her breath but answered. “When someone wishes to obtain a servant...” She made sure to emphasize the word. “They send a missive to the Conservatory through the proper channels. One cannot just send a note ‘oh, hello I would like a servant please’.” A roll of her eyes. “You must be of a good house, with a good reputation or, without that, you must be sponsored by one who has both. If you are acceptable, one of the _năvin_ visit your home.”

“What is a năvin?”

“A person who makes judgments. They spend time with the one who will choose. See their nature, their need, what qualities they possess, and what sort of servant is the best fit for them. The năvin returns and from the lists, chooses those who stand the best chance of being suitable. These are then lead to the parlor and the mistress-to-be makes her choice from those present.” 

He was still looking at her with that line between his brows, his gaze intent and his mouth in that firm line. “This is a happy memory for you?”  
“Oh yes.” She gave a shaky smile. “I was among a half dozen. My mistress was very sweet. She didn’t pinch or pull hair or insult us. Sometimes it happens that too much indulgence makes them unkind.” She could remember those who did not choose her. Spoiled wicked little creatures. “She just walked the line and asked our names, then she chose me and I left with her and her father.” 

“Wait… you didn’t have time to collect your things? To say goodbye?”

“What things, Captain? My Mistress paid for the dress I had nothing else to collect. As for the goodbyes, yes. I sometimes wish I could have done so. As I sometimes wonder where they are. The others of my year. At least I now know Quinn lives and is well.”

His mouth turned down as though he’d swallowed soured milk. “Oh yes. Your precious friend Ridley.” He leaned back in his chair, his hands laced over his stomach. “I don’t understand how you could have been brought up in the same place.” 

“You do understand, Captain, that though we are both Sinya Luinë, we were not trained the same way. At first, yes, we all learn our letters, numbers, take lessons in dance, music, weapons, but aptitudes quickly separate us. Quinn was raised to be a protector. To act as guard to his master or mistress and assure their safety. Others were raised to be entertainment. To sing and dance and to teach the same.” 

“What of you?” He leaned forward again, his intent study unabated. “Suppose in the choosing it had been me, not your mistress. What would my new slave do for me?”

“Servant!” She snapped. “If you call me a slave again I will simply stop responding. I am granting that perhaps you are curious and I will be gracious and answer your questions so long as you stop insulting me.” 

“Semantics.” He spoke through his teeth. For a long minute she was sure he would say it again and she’d every intention to lock her tongue behind her teeth and not speak a word even if he beat her. “Answer the question. If you were my … servant…” 

“As you are now? It is hard to say. For the sake of argument, I will suppose you have been spoken for by one of standing. The age would be an issue as well. Though I imagine you think any man can come and choose a girl for … unsavory reasons, that is frowned upon. That is one of the things the năvin watch for in their inspections. 

“I was only thirteen when I left so I cannot say what an older girl would know beyond that. Still…” She gave a nod. “Better this. You are … by some means of magic, inhabiting the body of my mistress. You are twelve, and I thirteen. I would wake before you, lay out your clothes and prepare your bath. When you woke I would judge your mood and seek to cheer you if you were unhappy, or perhaps let you grumble to one who will not hold it against you. I’d wash your hair and arrange it. See you dressed for breakfast, accompany you on your day’s tasks. To lessons, to visits with your friends…a constant source of company whose loyalty was to you above all. A girl appreciates knowing she has a confidant who will not tattle on her.” 

“Suppose I were grown.”

“I would do much the same. Follow to shops or parties. Carry your parcels of fetch your wrap or a drink.” She met his gaze. “Protect you from your own bad choices when I can.” 

He stared back. “Suppose I were a man.” 

“What change would that make, Captain? The Cerulean Conservatory does not turn out whores. I would treat you no differently than I treat my mistress.” 

“So you’d wash my hair and lay out my clothes?” He sneered sarcastically. 

“Ah, a difference. I’ve thought of one. Were you a man, I could shave you if you wished it.” 

He stood suddenly and rounded the desk, taking hold of her arms. “I _am_ a man.” His breath was coming quick through his nose. His hand rose to curl against her shoulder, his thumb rubbing against the hidden mark he had left there. “Shall I remind you?”

She couldn’t speak. All her words seemed to bunch up in her throat and hide there as his fingers slid up her neck and over her jawline. 

“I understand now why your gown didn’t fit and this does. Still, I hate this dress. It covers too much.” His fingers crept higher still, plucking at the twisted knot of her hair. “Nor do I wish you to do this matronly arrangement any longer. You will wear it down for me.”

Her tongue moved to dampen lips gone dry. There was no longer a reason she shouldn’t. There were few chores in this room to make working with her hair unbound a trial, and her mistress was not here to see her rules enforced. “I can do that, I suppose.” 

“Good.” He slowly stepped back. “There is paper and ink in the drawer. Sit. Write that letter you promised.” He turned and dropped into the chair with a sigh. “When you finished I will escort you down to go through the other dresses. Choose what you wish to keep and I will set the rest aside to be sold.” His voice growing softer as he let his eyes close, his head tipped to rest against the wing of the chair. “I’m going to rest my eyes but…” He sighed again, more deeply. “I’m still watching you.” 

He was asleep long before her heart calmed enough she thought it possible to do something so mundane as writing a letter. She did not wake him when she finished. The clothes would wait. He needed his rest to heal. 

When the sun again vanished behind the horiz , she was loath to risk disturbing him by lighting the lanterns, so retreated to her corner behind the screen to attempt to sleep herself. She prided herself on waking at the smallest sound, always ready in case she was needed. This time, she sank into a dreaming so deep the cannons could have been set off and she’d never know. 

Terrible dreams that would not end. Of loss and misery and regret that consumed her. She woke to find Captain Harcourt over her, his hands gripping here arms tightly as he shook her faintly. 

“Wake up. You were talking in your sleep.” 

“I...I am sorry.” She wiped at her eyes, found her cheeks wet. “What was I saying?”

“He is dead. The blood is his. I killed him.”


End file.
